Wanted
by KeepCalmAndExpectoPatronum
Summary: Detective Steve Rogers is a member of the New York City Police Department's elite Stakeout Unit. When he and his team are tasked with observing an escaped convict's ex-boyfriend—one James Buchanan Barnes—complications set in when Steve falls head over heels for Barnes.
1. Chapter 1

Steve Rogers had always played by the book. His friends used to tease him mercilessly about his apparent inability to ever step a toe out of line: he'd always be home by curfew, he never told a lie and he always stood up to bullies, even when he knew that he was fighting a losing battle. He'd gotten his butt kicked more than a few times for his troubles but his sense of justice and the belief that everyone ought to be treated fairly never wavered. It had earned him the unenviable nickname of Vanilla Man growing up, but Steve didn't care; the jokes rolled off of him like water off a duck's back. If anything, the jibes simply served to fuel his desire to make a difference, because for as long as Steve could remember, he had wanted to be a cop—and if there was one thing that Steve's friends could all agree upon, it was that when Steve Rogers put his mind to something, he damn well did it in spades.

He had applied that same resilience and determination to his studies: top of his class at the NYC Police Academy, he had graduated with honors alongside his best friend, Sam Wilson, another Brooklyn native who, like Steve, believed that they could do some good in the world by taking up the blue. He'd been fortunate enough to be stationed at the 76th Precinct, a stone's throw away from where he'd grown up in Red Hook in the northwest side of Brooklyn, ready and eager to serve the city and its people.

Unlike a lot of young cops fresh out of the academy, Steve was under no illusion that the job would be an easy one: the hours were grueling and unsociable. Working the beat was as emotionally demanding as it was physical; you had to think on your feet constantly while dealing with people in distress and had to quickly accept that, more often than not, your presence was an unwelcome, albeit a necessary one. Yet despite all of this, Steve was passionate about the work and the people. His professionalism and passion didn't go unnoticed by his coworkers, and over time he earned a new nickname, only slightly less embarrassing than the previous one—Captain America.

Yes, Steve Rogers had always played by the book. But after twelve long years on the force—with a detective badge and a failed marriage under his belt—Steve's unblemished record was about to be broken...

* * *

"Natasha, what's your position?" Steve murmured.

His partner's voice crackled in his ear, tinny and distant. "Bored and hungry. Over."

"Natasha…"

"Cool it, Rogers. I'm just passing JC Penney," she huffed. "No sign of him yet."

"Okay. Sam?"

"I'm at the main entrance," he replied. "Still no sign of the target."

"Clint? Anything to report?"

"Nada to report here either, man," Clint replied briskly.

Steve sighed and leaned on the glass balcony overlooking the ground floor of Stark Plaza Shopping Center. His team had been on a stakeout at the mall all day long. When it had come to the attention of local law enforcement that Stark Plaza was being used as a regular drop off location for illegal narcotics, the New York City Police Department's Stakeout Unit, headed by Steve, was put on the case. They suspected that the crime boss, Adrian Toomes, was the culprit behind the operation. It was ballsy in Steve's opinion, if not incredibly reckless, to use a busy mall as a drop off point for the drugs.

_Incredibly reckless or quite ingenious,_ he thought to himself.

The mall was so busy that it would be easy for their target to get lost in the crowd. Despite this, Toomes would never risk getting caught in the act, so he was sending his lackeys to do his dirty work for him: namely, a petty criminal by the name of Herman Schultz. That was who Steve and his team were hoping to pick up. They knew that Schultz was due to meet an accomplice sometime today, they just didn't know when. Their hopes that this particular criminal was an early bird who committed felonies in the morning were dashed as the hours had worn on. The more time passed, everyone's appetites grew and their patience was wearing thin.

"Why do I get food court detail?" Clint groaned. "Walking past all of this delicious smelling food is killing me! I swear to god, if I have to walk by Shalom Grill without buying anything one more time…"

"You know it's standard procedure to have an officer on each floor in case we somehow miss the suspect entering the premises. Better to cover all of the bases than risk losing this guy," Steve explained patiently, glancing up at the floor above him although he knew he wouldn't be able to see his fellow officer and teammate. Clint's derisive snort was so loud in Steve's ear that he winced.

"Sure thing! Because that's what you do before any drug deal: you go to the food court and grab a bite to eat!"

"You do if you're an idiot," Natasha mused.

Steve scanned the ground floor for his partner and spotted her bright auburn hair headed in his direction as she expertly weaved between the crowd of shoppers. She was putting on a fine show of blending in like a typical customer, swinging her shopping bags from side to side and perusing store windows, but Steve knew better. Despite appearances, Natasha was alert to her surroundings, using the reflection in the store windows to keep watch for their man.

"Well, if we're lucky he might be stupid enough to do just that," said Steve hopefully, although he wasn't going to bet on it.

Fortunately for them, the accomplice Schultz was due to meet—another lowlife by the name of Jackson Brice—was easy to spot from a mile off. Steve's team were more than amused to discover that when Brice wasn't working as one of Toomes's lackeys, he moonlighted as this particular mall's Santa Claus during the festive season.

Steve turned his attention back to Brice, who was situated on the ground floor between two escalators. Sporting a padded out Santa's outfit and synthetic white beard, he lounged like a king astride his gold throne, surrounded by fake snow and a tall Christmas tree which had an obscenely large pile of display Christmas gifts tucked enticingly underneath it. There was even a cheap imitation of Santa's Grotto beside the tree, which nobody except Santa's little helper—a rather surly-looking teenager dressed as a Christmas elf—had ventured into. If the suspicious plume of smoke coming from the candy cane-adorned window was any indication of what was going on inside, Steve presumed the elf was sneaking a smoke during the quieter moments of their shift. Not that there was much opportunity to do that; the line of expectant children who were all eager to meet their festive hero seemed to be neverending, and it was clear that Brice was in his element, "ho-ho-ho-ing" merrily while the children and their parents remained entirely unaware that this great pretender was most certainly on Santa's naughty list this year.

The plan was simple: catch Schultz red-handed dropping the narcotics off to Brice, presumably in exchange for a large sum of money. Steve and his team would swoop on them then, take them down to the station and, hopefully, flip one or both of them against their crime boss, Toomes. It sounded straightforward enough, but as time wore on, Steve was beginning to worry that Schultz wasn't going to show. If that was the case, they'd have to come back tomorrow morning and try again. Steve hoped that wasn't necessary, more for the sake of his teammates than himself. Working the Stakeout Unit was rarely glamorous and often boring, repetitive work, and he was in no hurry to put his teammates through another day of boredom at the mall. After a few more uneventful minutes of waiting, Clint finally lost his patience.

"That's it! I can't wait any longer. I'm grabbing something to eat from Shalom Grill," he declared. "You guys wanting anything?"

Steve tensed and bowed his head, pretending to look at his watch while he spoke into the small microphone pinned to his t-shirt.

"We're on the job, Barton, you shouldn't be buying snacks," he chastised.

"You heard Nat, we're starving! And we've already missed lunch," Clint argued. "Besides, we're supposed to be blending in, aren't we? I look hella suspicious wandering about a food court without buying any food."

"Fair point," Steve relented.

"Do your cognitive functions extend beyond the whims of your stomach?" Sam teased.

"Nah. Usually, he usually thinks with his dick first," Natasha joked.

Sam's laughter rang in Steve's ear as Clint, sounding wounded, offered a weak "very funny, Nat" in response. Even Steve was struggling to suppress a grin at that remark. He faked a cough covered his mouth—and his smile—with the back of his hand.

"You know what? Screw you guys, you can get your own dinner," Clint grumbled.

"Come on man, we're only kidding!" Sam chuckled.

"Get me a schnitzel burger," said Natasha.

"Urgh...alright, but only because I love you," Clint sighed. "Whatcha having, Sam?"

"Aww, I knew that you loved me too," he preened. "Schwarma for me, thanks."

"Steve?"

"Nothing for me, thanks."

"Come on man, you must be starving!" Clint cried.

"I'm fine," Steve insisted. He was starving, but he didn't feel like he'd earned a bite to eat until they had finished the job. Clint, however, ignored Steve's protests.

"I'll just grab you a hotdog, then," he insisted. "Hi there. Uh, can I have two shawarmas—pita, thanks—one schnitzel burger—"

"Guys, I have eyes on Schultz." Sam cut Clint's order off mid-sentence. "He's just entered the building, I'm following him from a distance."

Steve heard Clint curse and give the checkout person a hurried apology as he abandoned his order. "I'm headed for the escalator. What's the target wearing?"

"Black beanie hat, black bomber jacket with yellow sleeves, blue jeans, green backpack," Sam rhymed off. "He's walking at a fairly quick pace. He looks agitated as hell."

"Don't approach him until after he's made the exchange," Steve reminded them, his gaze fixed on Brice as he summoned another child to sit on his lap, oblivious to what was about to happen. A few moments later, Schultz walked into Steve's line of sight. Looking around nervously, Schultz beelined in the direction of Brice, who hadn't yet noticed his accomplice's presence. Sam appeared soon after, keeping a safe distance from Schultz so as not to be spotted. Just as Sam sat down at a nearby bench, Natasha came into view again from the right, pretending to be on her phone as she slowly made her approach.

"I have a clear view of the target," she said quietly.

"Everyone hold your positions," Steve instructed.

The team waited with bated breath as Schultz lingered at the bottom of the escalator on Steve's left, trying to catch Brice's eye. When Brice finally caught sight of Schultz, his jovial smile quickly fell into a dark scowl, but he didn't rush the kid sitting on his knee away; instead, he waited patiently and nodded as the little girl presumably rhymed off everything that she wanted for Christmas that year. When she finally slid off of his knee and skipped away towards her mother, Brice beckoned his assistant over and whispered in his ear. The surly teenager nodded and hurried inside the Grotto, re-emerging moments later with a large sign that read _Santa is off to the North Pole. Back soon!,_ which he placed it in front of Santa's throne before wandering off in the direction of the exit, probably for another cigarette break.

Brice ignored the groans of disappointment from the children still waiting to see Santa as he rose from his seat and beckoned Schultz over to the Grotto with a curt nod. Steve held his breath as Schultz slipped his backpack off as he walked quickly over to Brice's side. He was in the process of opening it when Brice grabbed his wrist and hissed something that, from what Steve could guess, looked like "what the hell are you doing?" before a sheepish-looking Schultz zipped the bag shut again. Steve took his time walking in the direction of the nearest escalator as he watched Brice and Schultz argue briefly before Brice roughly shoved his accomplice inside the small Grotto, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Did you manage to get a look at the contents of that bag from where you're standing, Natasha?" asked Steve, stepping onto the descending escalator.

"Oh yeah," she chuckled. "That bag was full of white bricks and I don't think it was snow from the North Pole."

Clint stepped onto the escalator directly across from Steve while Sam stood up from his bench. Like a pack of wolves, all four of them approached the Grotto, surrounding it from all sides, waiting for Brice and Schultz to re-emerge. A moment later, the Grotto's door swung open again and Schultz stepped out, ducking his head to avoid banging it against the low door frame, immediately followed by Brice. Without a parting word to one another, Schultz slung the green backpack higher onto his shoulder and began marching in the direction of the exit while Brice straightened his red pointed hat and sauntered back over to his gold throne. With the exchange complete, it was time for Steve and his team to step in.

"That's our cue, guys. Take them now."

Steve stepped off of the escalator just as Schultz was walking past. He only managed to walk a few more paces when Sam and Steve, flanking him from either side, grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. His confused expression turned into one of panic when he saw Sam's police badge.

"Hold it right there, pal," said Sam tucking his badge back into his pocket. "NYPD. We'd like to take a look in that bag of yours."

"Oh, hell no!" Schultz tried to shake Steve off and make a run for it, but to no avail. Despite his protestations of innocence and continuing struggle to free himself, Steve and Sam made quick work of pinning Schultz to the ground and placing him in handcuffs. A small crowd had gathered around them, watching with interest as Sam pulled their suspect to his feet. When Sam had a secure hold of Schultz, Steve snatched the abandoned backpack from the floor and unzipped it. The bricks of cocaine Natasha had seen were gone, but Steve whistled when he saw that they had been replaced with a large pile of cash.

"Well, what do we have here?" he asked, pulling out a fistful of notes and showing them to Schultz. "Going Christmas shopping, were we?"

"That's not mine," Schultz replied quickly.

"Really?" asked Steve flatly. "You just happened to find a bag full of cash while you were wandering about the mall? Or did your friend give it to you?"

Schultz glared at Steve but said nothing. Just then there was a loud scream and Steve's head snapped up to see what the commotion was.

In the short time that had passed since Sam and Steve had apprehended Schultz, a lot had transpired. As soon as Brice saw Sam flash his police badge, he broke out into a run in the opposite direction, hoping to outrun the police and evade capture. Unfortunately for him, he didn't make it more than a few strides as Natasha stuck her foot out and tripped him up. Passersby gasped as Brice stumbled and fell before landing spread eagle across the polished marble floor. As Brice lay in a crumpled heap on the floor, moaning in pain, Natasha dropped her shopping bags and flashed her police badge at him.

"Not so fast, Kris Kringle." Tucking her badge back down the front of her shirt, she began pulling Brice back onto his feet. "I know this is a busy time of year for you but we're gonna have to take a look inside your gingerbread house."

"It's a Grotto, Nat. Only witches live in gingerbread houses," Clint informed her, ducking as he entered the little house to investigate. "Holy shit! There must be at least ten kilos worth of coke in here! Merry Christmas indeed…"

Natasha pulled out her handcuffs that she kept tucked into the bottom of her back and gave a careless shrug. "Jackson Brice, you're under arrest on suspicion of—WOAH!"

Without warning, Brice pulled a knife out from his sleeve and lunged at Natasha. She managed to duck just in time and the blade missed striking her face by mere inches. Clint, unaware of the danger Natasha was in, emerged from the Grotto then, brandishing two large white bricks of cocaine wrapped in polyethylene.

"Seriously, we could build an igloo there's so many bricks in there!" he cried gleefully, but his smile fell as he realized what was happening. Clint immediately dropped the packages and drew his pistol, pointing it at Brice. "Stand down or I'll shoot!"

Natasha, however, never gave Clint the opportunity to use his weapon. Onlookers screamed as the demented Santa Claus lunged at her but she easily side-stepped him, unwittingly moving directly into Clint's line of sight. Clint swore loudly and shouted at Natasha to move out of the way, but in the blink of an eye, she had grabbed Brice's wrist and twisted it violently. There was an audible crunch and Brice squealed in pain as Natasha disarmed him and the knife clattered to the floor, but even then, Brice wasn't going down without a fight. Using his uninjured arm, he took a swing for Natasha but she easily ducked his punch. With the elegance of a ballerina, she roundhouse kicked Brice square in the chest, sending him soaring through the air before he crashed into the Christmas tree and toppled it over. Clint had to dive out of the way of the falling tree as it came crashing to the ground, crushing the Grotto in the process.

Ignoring the screams and cries of everyone around her, Natasha marched over to Brice, who lay in an undignified heap on top of the Christmas gifts. His fake beard had fallen off during the scuffle but Natasha grabbed a handful of Brice's real beard and yanked him forward, causing him to yell in pain as she threw him onto the floor on top of his padded belly.

"Put your hands behind your back!" she yelled, pressing her knee into the bottom of his back. "You're under arrest."

"I can't!" Brice cried pitifully. "You broke my arm!"

Natasha clicked her tongue impatiently and roughly pulled Brice to his feet again.

"If you attack me or my colleagues again, I'll break your other arm," she warned. "Got it?"

"Natasha!" Steve cried, running over to her side, closely followed by Sam, who dragged Schultz alongside him. "Are you alright? What the hell happened?"

"This clown thought it was a good idea to add assaulting a police officer with a deadly weapon to the list of charges against him," she snarled, jerking her head at Brice, whose unbroken arm she held in a vise-like grip. "It's my fault: I didn't pat him down before I tried cuffing him. Then again, nobody thinks Santa Claus is gonna pull a knife on you, do they? I took care of it, though."

"I can see that," said Steve weakly, looking around at the chaos that surrounded them: a large crowd of disbelieving onlookers were watching them, including a number of crying children. Several people had their phones out recording the whole thing.

_Christ,_ he thought woefully. _This'll be online in no time._

"Where's Clint?" he asked, looking around for his absent teammate.

As though summoned by Steve's words, Clint clambered out from under the Christmas tree and back to his feet, brushing pine needles from his jacket. Looking around dazedly he shook his head.

"Holy shit, Nat!" he exclaimed before turning to Natasha with an awed expression. "That was awesome!"

Natasha flashed him a brilliant smile. "Thank you, Clint! Come on, let's get these guys booked and then we can head out for a bite to eat. You still owe me a schnitzel burger."

"Fury is gonna kill us when he hears about this," Steve groaned, running his hand over his stubbly face. Natasha snorted.

"I don't see why. We got the bad guys, didn't we? And nobody got seriously hurt. So, yah know...mission accomplished!"

Steve was far less confident that their Captain would see it that way but there was no point crying over spilled milk: they'd just have to deal with the consequences, whatever they may be.

"Alright, let's head back to the station," he sighed. "Nat. Sam. You take Brice and Schultz to the car. Clint and I will collect evidence from what's left of the Grotto."

"Uh, there might be a slight issue with that," said Clint slowly.

Steve frowned at him. "What do you mean?"

Clint bent over and picked up what was left of the plastic bag which had contained the brick of cocaine, its contents having spilled all over the shopping mall floor. Steve threw his head back in despair and groaned. Fury was going to be furious.


	2. Chapter 2

"Would anyone care to explain to me the series of events that lead to the shitshow that unfolded down at Stark Plaza this afternoon?" Captain Fury demanded.

Steve and his team sat in front of Fury's desk, arms crossed and heads bowed, feeling like naughty school children under their captain's furious gaze. As Steve had suspected, Fury was less than impressed with how what was supposed to be a low-key operation had spectacularly blown up in their faces—and the internet. In a few short hours, several videos of Natasha beating up Brice had appeared online. One video entitled _Redhead Ninja Yeets Santa_ had already garnered thousands of views and was the talk of the precinct. It would have been funny if they weren't all at real risk of losing their badges.

"It's my fault, sir," Natasha spoke up. "I wasn't paying enough attention to Brice and I missed the weapon he had concealed up his sleeve. I should have patted him down more thoroughly before I attempted to handcuff him."

"Yes, you should have," Fury agreed. "But you didn't. You were complacent. And now our primary suspect is in hospital, the evidence that we had hoped to gather was destroyed and there are a lot of angry parents calling up my office demanding to know what kind of Mickey Mouse operation we're running down here."

"It wasn't Nat's fault the guy decided to pull a knife on her!" said Clint hotly. "What was she supposed to do, let him stab her? She had to defend herself!"

"Her actions were excessive." Fury argued evenly. "Once the suspect was disarmed, he no longer posed a threat. It was not necessary to then roundhouse kick Santa Claus into a Christmas tree in front of a hundred kids. You're a New York Detective, Romanoff, not Jackie Chan."

"I know," she agreed. "I apologize for my actions. I let my teammates down and I take full responsibility for the failure of the operation."

"No, the blame lies with me," Steve argued. "I'm team leader, so the buck stops with me."

"If I hadn't been messing about in the Grotto, Brice wouldn't have had a chance to attack Nat," Clint countered. "The whole thing is my fault."

"Alright, enough of the "I'm Spartacus" routine," said Fury irritably. "You're all equally to blame for how this went down. Except you, Wilson, your conduct was exemplary."

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his seat and forced himself to meet the captain's steely gaze. "With all due respect, sir, while I appreciate the vote of confidence, we're a team: whatever disciplinary action they face, I should get the same."

Nat and Clint smiled warmly at Sam and Steve gave him an appreciative pat on the back. They might not always get on with each other, but they always had each others' backs, no matter what. Fury rolled his one good eye and tutted.

"Okay, let's cut the lovefest short, shall we?" he said briskly. "Romanoff, you're on desk duty until this viral video nonsense blows over. That goes for you too, Rogers."

Steve gave Fury a curt nod. "Yes, sir."

Natasha pulled a face. Steve knew that she wanted to argue with the captain—she absolutely loathed being confined to a desk doing admin duties. She had always preferred to be out working on the field, in the thick of the action. But they all knew that she was getting off lightly, so instead, she pursed her lips and nodded glumly in agreement.

"Alright then. Barton. Wilson. Make a start on writing up a report for this disaster of an operation. I'd like to speak to Rogers and Romanoff privately," Fury commanded.

There was a scraping of wooden chair legs against the floor as Clint and Sam got to their feet and headed for the exit. Clint gave Natasha's shoulder a quick, affectionate squeeze as he passed before closing the office door behind him. Fury let out a weary sigh and leaned back in his seat, the chair creaking loudly as he looked between the two detectives in silent contemplation for a few moments.

"Rogers, where the hell were you when this was going down?"

"Apprehending Schultz, sir," he replied. "I'm afraid to say that neither he nor Brice were particularly compliant when we were arresting them."

"But Schultz didn't pull a knife on you, did he?" asked Fury rhetorically.

"No, sir."

A blush matching the colour of Natasha's hair crept up her neck but she kept her expression unreadable. Fury shook his head in disappointment.

"Your partner needed backup and you weren't there, Rogers. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"There's nothing I can say, sir," said Steve. "Other than I'd like to apologize to Natasha for letting her down."

"Steve, it's fine," Natasha mumbled, but Fury raised his hand to silence her.

"Apologies don't stop bullets or blades. You work well together but when you get sloppy—especially in the field—you put lives at risk, namely your own. That was a rookie mistake you made today, Romanoff," he said before adding more gently, "But I'm glad that you're alright."

"Thank you, sir," she replied quietly. "And I am sorry about what happened."

"I know you are. Your reckless behavior saw you facing a credible threat to your life today. But when you had your back against the wall you kept your cool and disarmed the suspect swiftly and efficiently."

That was as close to praise as you were going to get where Fury was concerned. Natasha gave him a small smile in return.

"Thank you, sir."

"You're a good cop, Romanoff. Let's just try and keep the Krav Maga moves to a minimum from now on, shall we?"

"Yes, sir."

"One more thing, before you go..." Fury's chair creaked again as he leaned forward and laced his fingers together on his desk. "This department not only takes the physical well-being of its officers seriously but also their psychological welfare."

Natasha's smile fell. "Sir, you can't be serious…"

"Does this look like the face of a man who's joking?" asked Fury soberly.

"I don't need a psych evaluation," she insisted. "I'm perfectly fine."

"I'm sorry, you seem to be under the impression that this is up for debate," he replied sarcastically. "Both of you will report to Doctor Banner's office first thing Monday morning. Yes, I've already arranged for him to evaluate the two of you. Don't give me that look, Rogers, you almost saw your partner get stabbed today. Banner will determine whether or not you're both fit enough to return to active duty. Until such time, use this as an opportunity to catch up on your paperwork. That will be all."

"Sir—" Natasha began to argue but Fury cut her off.

"That was your cue to leave," he said coolly, nodding towards the exit.

Natasha pursed her lips and left the office without another word. Steve gave the captain a polite nod before closing the office door behind him and chasing after her.

"Nat…"

"This is a waste of time," she muttered, flopping into the spinning chair at her desk. "I've got more important things to do than lie on a couch and sob over how my mother didn't hug me enough."

"Yeah, you've got me for that," Steve joked, sitting on the edge of her desk.

Natasha offered him the slightest of smiles before scowling again. "I'm sorry you're getting dragged into this, too." She sighed and rubbed her tired eyes. "Christ, if only I'd checked Brice properly. So stupid of me…"

"Hey, don't beat yourself up over this," said Steve gently. "I'm just glad you're alright...you are okay, aren't you?"

"I'm fine," she assured him.

"Are you sure?" Steve smirked. "You want to hug this out or…"

Steve laughed as Natasha playfully punched him on the arm, a real smile spreading across her face now. "Don't push your luck, Rogers. Honestly, I'm fine. But I'm pretty hungry now, Clint still owes us lunch."

"It's closer to dinner time now," said Steve checking his watch. "You want to go grab a quick bite to eat and call it a night?"

Natasha sighed and slowly got to her feet. "Yeah, let's get the hell out of here before Fury changes his mind and takes our badges."

Within the hour, Steve was sitting at Shalom Grill with his teammates, the stress of the day finally ebbing away. Okay, so the stakeout had gone pear-shaped but at least everyone was alive and well. And by some miracle, Fury had taken pity on them and let them keep their jobs. If all they had to do was keep their noses clean and attend a few sessions with Doctor Banner, Steve was more than happy to comply. Far from lamenting the failings of the operation, Clint delighted in reenacting Natasha's martial arts antics, gesticulating wildly as he used his pita bread and condiments to demonstrate what had happened.

"And the Christmas tree was like BOOM!" Clint tipped over the ketchup bottle on their table and threw his arms up into the air. "Right on top of me! I thought my life was flashing before my eyes but it was just Nat kicking Brice past me."

"Seriously, that dude flew through the air like one of Santa's reindeer," Sam chuckled, popping a fry into his mouth.

"It really was a sight to behold," Clint agreed. He took a sip from his soda before continuing, "So, have you guys got any plans for the weekend? What about you, Nat? Are you gonna don a mask and kick some bad guys' asses?"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "The only person who's going to get their ass kicked is you if you don't give it a rest already."

Clint feigned shock and clutched his heart. "How you wound me! I thought we were friends!"

"Only when you're not being an idiot," she teased, stealing one of his onion rings and taking an aggressive bite out of it. "Which isn't that often."

"What about you, Steve?" Sam pressed. "Doing anything fun this weekend?"

Steve gave a noncommittal shrug in response. "Ah, you know. Just the usual."

Clint looked expectantly at him. "Which is…"

Steve took a protracted drink from his soda, unwilling to answer. He knew fine well what his plans were this weekend because it was the same thing that he did every weekend: He'd get up at six o'clock sharp for his morning run, grab a cream cheese bagel from Mazzola's on the route home, have a shower, then spend the rest of the day catching up on paperwork from the office before eating leftover takeout in the fridge for dinner and heading to bed at ten. If Steve was feeling really wild, he'd have a couple of beers while he wrote up his reports but he'd never been a big drinker. This had been his mundane routine for a long time now; Steve had always been a hard worker, but after his ma had passed away, he had thrown himself into his work. Not surprisingly, this didn't help his already failing marriage. So when Peggy finally moved out, he threw himself into his work even more in an effort to distract himself from the fact that every other aspect of his life was falling apart. Steve fixed a smile to his face and shrugged.

"It's like you said: I'm gonna don a mask and kick some ass."

"Alright, be all mysterious," Clint relented. "I'm sure whatever it is you're doing is more exciting than what we have planned."

"I still can't believe you managed to rope me into helping you decorate your apartment," Natasha groaned. A licentious grin spread across Clint's face and he nudged Natasha with his elbow.

"I can be very persuasive when I want to be," he teased, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. Natasha, however, didn't look impressed.

"Remember what I said about whooping your ass…" she warned.

"Well, unlike the rest of you losers, I actually have something worthwhile mentioning planned tonight," Sam chipped in smugly.

"Yeah?" asked Steve curiously. "What's that?"

"I've got a date with Val," he preened. His smile widened as Steve, Natasha and Clint "oohed" in unison at this news.

"Is this the girl from the Taekwondo class?" asked Natasha interestedly.

"It is indeed," he nodded. "Turns out we have a shared love of Marvin Gaye, so we're going to The Subway Soul Club to see what else we have in common..."

The four friends sat and chatted for a little while longer about Sam's upcoming date and their other plans for the weekend before parting ways. Steve offered Clint a ride home—they lived in the same apartment building in Bedford-Stuyvesant—but he declined Steve's offer and wandered off in the opposite direction with Natasha instead. Steve watched with interest as they walked side by side, careful to maintain a reasonable distance between them, their hands tucked deep inside their pockets as they chatted animatedly to one another. Steve shook his head and slid into the front seat of his Ford Fusion and pulled away from the curb. It was fairly obvious that Natasha and Clint were seeing each other, but Steve wasn't going to pry into his partner's private life. In all honesty, he was happy for the two of them; they already argued like an old married couple, he supposed it was just a matter of time before they came out publicly.

It was a short drive back to his apartment, and in no time at all, he was home, although it was a less than homey atmosphere that greeted him as he entered the sparsely decorated apartment. Steve told himself that he had what he needed: a dining room table and chair sat in the living area littered with paperwork, his bed lay unmade and his fridge was woefully empty. Ignoring the unopened boxes of belongings that littered the small apartment, Steve beelined straight for his bedroom. Collapsing onto the bed, he closed his eyes, feeling bone-tired. His stomach grumbled loudly, but Steve ignored it: he knew that he should have had a proper meal instead of stealing a few fries from Sam's plate, but he was too exhausted to contemplate moving now.

Instead, Steve lay there thinking about the fun night that Sam must be having with Val; he could picture the two of them dancing the night away to their favorite Motown classics and felt an unexpected stab of jealousy at the thought of his best friend's happiness. Feeling guilty, he pushed that feeling aside and fleetingly wondered what Natasha and Clint were up to instead but quickly decided that he'd rather not know. His mind drifted and he couldn't help but wonder what Peggy would be doing tonight. Steve glanced at his watch: it was a little after nine but knowing her she'd still be in the office.

Steve was well aware that lying alone in bed thinking about your ex-wife was about the worst way anyone could spend a Friday evening, but it was times like these that Steve missed her the most, when he was alone in the dark with nothing to distract him from his own thoughts. He missed the warmth of another body beside him at night and someone to cuddle into in the mornings. And more than anything else, he missed having someone to talk to. Loneliness ate away at his heart like the hunger in his belly, and no matter how much he tried to distract himself with work, it was an ever-present feeling, always niggling away at him, tormenting him, a constant reminder how far he had fallen. Sure, he had a good career and was respected by his peers, but what else did he have to show for all of his hard work and sacrifices? He had no family. Nobody to love. No life. Christ, he didn't even have milk in the fridge.

Steve picked up his mobile and scrolled aimlessly through the list of contacts before coming to a stop at Peggy's number. His thumb hovered over the dial button for a few moments before he thought better of it. Discarding his phone on the bedside table, Steve let out a heavy sigh and rolled over, hugging a pillow to his chest. He was in a sorry state and he had nobody to blame but himself for his predicament. It took Steve a long time to fall into an uneasy sleep that night. He just hoped that when he woke up in the morning, he'd feel better about things. If he didn't...well, his mundane routine always served as an excellent distraction.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve's foot bounced restlessly against his thigh as he sat in Doctor Banner's office. He'd rather be under gunfire than spend another second in the good doctor's company, but Banner continued to smile mildly at him, patiently waiting for Steve to respond to his question.

The session had begun well enough; Banner had kicked things off by asking Steve to recount everything that had happened during the operation—"It's important to hear how events unfolded from your perspective," he had explained—before they had moved on to discussing his relationship with his partner.

"Things are good," Steve had assured him.

And they were. He trusted Natasha with his life. They chatted about his work, his teammates, his caseload...the usual things that Steve expected to be covered in a session like this. Banner didn't appear to be overly concerned with anything, nodding along and making a few notes in his journal while Steve chatted away, his mind already wandering, thinking about the mountain of work he had waiting for him on his desk. He hoped that the session wouldn't last much longer so he could get back to work. But just when Steve thought things were wrapping up and the doctor would sign him off with a clean bill of health, Banner looked up from his journal and gave him a sympathetic smile.

"It's been a couple of years since we last spoke," he noted conversationally. "You were going through a rough time then if I remember correctly? Your marriage had recently come to an end, yes?"

Steve's brain stalled. The last subject he had expected to come up today was his ex-wife. "I thought we were here to talk about Nat."

"We are," said Banner. "But I'm also interested in how you've been coping since our last session. After Peggy left, you came to see me—"

"Only because Fury made me," Steve cut in stiffly but Banner didn't look ruffled by his curt response.

"Yes, you attended your mandatory sessions with me and declined my invitation to meet again," he replied evenly. "I had also recommended that you take some personal leave during that time but I can see from your files that you didn't do that. In fact, you haven't taken any vacation time in the last five years. Why is that?"

"I've been busy," Steve replied defensively. "In case you haven't noticed we're short-staffed, underfunded and have caseloads coming out of our ears. I don't have time for a vacation."

Concern flashed across Banner's face then and he scribbled down another note in his journal. Steve felt a stab of embarrassment at having essentially admitted that he had no life outside of the office. Sure, Natasha knew about his humdrum existence, but she knew better than to pester him about it. He'd get no such reprieve from the doctor.

"You've talked extensively about your work but you haven't said anything about your life outside of work," Banner continued. "What do you like to do during your free time?"

"Uhh…"

Steve didn't know how to answer. He briefly considered making a cheeky remark about donning a mask and kicking some ass like some comic book vigilante but Banner wasn't exactly famed for his humor. Knowing his luck, the doctor would diagnose him as suffering from some sort of messiah complex and force him into taking an extended leave of absence. The thought of having so much free time on his hands filled him with dread, so instead, he gave a noncommittal shrug in response.

"I like to run," he replied before adding, "And I read a lot."

"Do you read anything that isn't work-related?"

Steve's reluctance to answer that question was met with another concerned frown from the doctor. Banner sighed and carefully closed his journal.

"You need time for yourself too, Steve," he gently reminded him. "You're entitled to have a life outside of these four walls, just like everyone else."

Steve scoffed and crossed his arms. What life?

Banner quickly wrapped up their session soon after and reminded Steve that his door was always open to him if he ever needed to talk, but they both knew that Steve wouldn't take him up on that offer.

When Steve finally escaped the doctor's office, he found Natasha sitting at her desk, typing away furiously on her computer. She paused when Steve slumped into his seat at the desk opposite her own, looking forlorn. Leaning back in her chair, she laced her fingers together and stretched them above her head, yawning loudly.

"How did it go?" she asked, cracking her fingers.

"Terribly," he admitted. "He says that I'm stuck in the past and that I'm using work to avoid dealing with my problems."

Natasha let out a derisive snort and crossed her arms. "I could have told you that for free."

Steve threw her an incredulous look. "Hey, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"I am!" she insisted. "But he might have a point."

Steve threw his head back in despair and groaned, "Oh man, not you too."

"Tell me, Steve, if I were to go over to your apartment right now, would I find half your shit still in boxes?" she challenged.

"I haven't had time to unpack," he replied half-heartedly.

"Six months you've lived in that apartment…"

It had actually been a year but Steve wasn't inclined to correct her. "I've been busy."

"Now we both know that is a lie." Natasha shook her head at him. "Live to work or work to live, Steve. I know which I prefer."

"What are you guys talking about?"

Steve turned to find Clint marching towards him, a box of donuts in hand, closely followed by Sam who carried a paper tray with four coffees. Natasha snatched one of the proffered donuts out of Clint's hand and took a large bite before speaking again.

"We're talking about our psych eval's," she mumbled. "Banner says that I have intimacy issues, but that's nothing new."

"Well, you do have a habit of roundhouse kicking anyone who tries to get close to you," Clint joked.

Natasha swallowed hard to clear her mouth and smirked at him. "Only the ones who try to stab me."

"What about you, Steve?" asked Sam. "How did it go?"

"It went fine," he lied.

"Steve here has been encouraged to get some hobbies outside of the workplace," Nat chipped in, smiling at her gloomy partner.

"Well, I can't disagree with that," said Sam, handing out everyone's drinks. "I can't remember the last time we went for a night out that didn't involve being on a stakeout. You need to get a life outside of this precinct, man."

"What you need is to get laid," Clint declared. Steve choked on his coffee and Nat slapped him on the arm.

"Clint!" she snarled.

"What?" he replied innocently. "It's sound advice! I always feel better after I've had a good, hard—"

"Finish that sentence at your own peril," Natasha warned in a low, dangerous voice. Clint merely shrugged and took a sip from his cup while Natasha turned her attention back to Steve. "As tactless as Clint is with his words, his suggestion isn't completely ridiculous."

"I could talk to Val if you like, see if she's got any single friends that would be interested in hooking up with a decorated police detective," Sam offered with a cheeky grin.

"How exactly did my sex life become the topic of discussion?" asked Steve irritably.

"It's more interesting than casework," Clint quipped.

Steve was about to tell Clint where to stick his donut and his advice when Captain Fury's office door swung open and he fixed his steely gaze on Steve's team.

"Rogers. Romanoff. Barton. Wilson. A word."

Without further explanation, Fury disappeared back inside his office, leaving his door ajar. The team shared a quizzical look before abandoning their coffee and donuts and hurrying over to the captain's office.

"What do you reckon we've done to piss him off this time?" Sam asked Natasha out of the corner of his mouth but she shook her head, as clueless as the rest of them.

Just before they entered Fury's office, Clint patted Steve on the back and said in a stage whisper, "I'm telling you, man, a blowjob will do you a world of good. Get yourself signed up to one of those dating apps, I'm sure someone will swipe right on you."

"I'll keep that in mind," Steve replied grumpily.

As Steve was the last to enter, he closed the door behind him and took a seat in front of the captain's desk beside the others. Fury looked more irritable than usual, but Steve's attention was focused on the man standing awkwardly behind Fury's left shoulder. Clutching a large black folder to his chest, he looked more like an accountant than law enforcement, but the plain black suit was a dead giveaway that he was a Fed.

"Everyone, this is Agent Ross from the regional FBI headquarters," Fury waved his hand lazily at the man behind him. Agent Ross stepped forward and shook everyone's hand in turn before returning to his spot behind Fury's desk. "The FBI has requested some help over the next couple of weeks, so for the time being, your cases have been reassigned."

"Woah, hold up there, Captain," said Clint. "We're this close to breaking the Toomes case, you can't seriously expect us to drop everything now!"

"The last thing you broke was the hearts of a hundred school kids who saw Santa Claus get his ass handed to him," Fury retorted. "And whether you like it or not, the FBI's case takes precedence over everything else. Agent Ross here is in charge of the case in question so I'll pass it over to him to give you the details."

Agent Ross smiled and stepped forward then. "Thank you, Captain Fury. Now, I don't know if any of you are familiar with Brock Rumlow, but just in case you're not…" Ross proceeded to hand each of them a case file. "...four years ago, Rumlow killed one of our agents during a drug bust. He should have gone to the chair for what he did but he had a sharp lawyer and the police were, shall we say, a little overzealous in their pursuit of justice."

Steve and his team glanced at each other at that ominous admission as Ross continued, "He's been serving a life sentence in Seagate Penitentiary ever since. That is, until two days ago when he escaped."

"Holy shit," Natasha murmured. "I saw them talking about this on the news. This is the guy that we're after?"

Steve opened the file and was met with Brock Rumlow's mugshot. He was undoubtedly a handsome man, olive-skinned and sharp-featured, but his dark eyes had no warmth behind them. He looked like the type of man who would kiss then kill you in the same breath.

"Rumlow busted out of Little Alcatraz?" asked Sam, sounding almost impressed. Ross's expression became more pinched and he nodded.

"With the help of his cousin, Jack Rollins, who I've included details of in the files. Rumlow made his escape following a brawl with several guards, killing one and hospitalizing several others. The pair then fled the compound by boat to the mainland. We recovered CCTV footage showing the pair traveling west in a vehicle which we found abandoned this morning just over the state line in Alabama."

Steve flicked through the file and frowned. "If Rumlow's been imprisoned in Georgia and he's headed west, why are you here in New York talking to us?"

"While we believe that Rumlow will head for Mexico, he has friends here in the city, so we're setting up a half dozen stakeouts just on the off-chance that he comes back," Ross explained. "We'll handle the locations Rumlow is more likely to visit, but since we're a little short staffed, your men will—"

"Men and women," Natasha corrected him. Ross looked a little flustered at the interruption before smiling nervously at Natasha and continuing.

"Yes, of course...men _and_ women...will set up stakeouts at the other points of interest."

"Who are we watching?" asked Sam.

"Rumlow has an old boyfriend living in the Brooklyn area. His name is James Barnes, he's a hairdresser who works nights at the Asgard Club in Red Hook…"

Steve turned the page and paused at the photograph of the man whose house they would be staking out. The picture was small and grainy, a photocopy of Mr Barnes's driver's license. His dark hair was cropped short and he had a mean look about him, and considering the company that Barnes kept, he was probably a troublemaker, too.

"Your team will be watching Barnes's house while Second Precinct will take the nightclub and hairdressers," Ross explained. He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and tossed them at Steve, who caught them in mid-air. "Here's the keys to the apartment we've rented across the street from where Barnes lives. We're going to have to move quickly on this, so we need your team to head out there today. I know it's short notice but these are really bad people that we're after."

"Do we get a bug?" asked Natasha.

"Hopefully within the next twenty-four hours," Ross assured her, snapping the clasps of his briefcase shut. "We really appreciate your help with this, but please keep in mind that this is still an FBI operation: if you spot Rumlow, report it. Nothing more."

"Wait a second," Natash cut in. "Let me get this straight: you want us to sit on our asses on some low priority shit detail on the off-chance that we're gonna run across this guy, and then what are we supposed to do?"

"We're supposed to give them a jingle so that they can take all the credit," Clint sneered.

"That's what I thought," Steve added darkly. "I'm sorry, Captain, I don't mean to sound negative, but this is—"

"Bullshit." Natasha finished for him.

"We're cops. Not security guards," Steve continued. "If I see 'bad people', I'm going to be a little too busy arresting them to be making any phone calls."

Ross glowered down at Steve's team for a long moment before turning to Captain Fury. "I do hope that their unruly attitude doesn't affect their performance."

"With all due respect, I think that their attitude is on point," he replied coolly.

Ross's jaw tensed and his eyes narrowed. Steve held his breath, half-expecting the FBI agent to explode with rage and remind them exactly who they were dealing with (the FBI always liked to throw their weight about and act as though they were better than lowly cops like themselves on the beat) but few were brave enough to raise their voice to Captain Fury, who despite his normally calm demeanor had a temper worthy of his name. Perhaps realizing that he was better off cutting his losses, Ross snatched up his briefcase and mumbled under his breath about having a word with his superiors before storming out of the office, slamming the glass door shut behind him with a loud bang.

"What an asshole," Natasha grumbled.

"That's enough," Fury chastised. "While I'm inclined to agree with you, we don't need anybody hearing you say that, otherwise it'll be my ass on the line." He sighed and snapped the case file on his desk shut. "This will be a twenty-four hour surveillance operation. Wilson and Barton will take the day shift, Rogers and Romanoff take nights."

As everyone slowly rose to their feet, case files tucked under their arms, Natasha looked expectantly at the captain.

"Sir, does this mean Rogers and I aren't on desk duty anymore?" she asked hopefully.

"For the time being, you will return to active duty," Fury confirmed. Natasha beamed at him and practically skipped out of the office, looking unperturbed as the captain called after her, "And for the love of God, don't kick anybody this time!"

"I'll try my best, Captain!" she called over her shoulder before turning to Steve and winking at him. "But I won't make any promises that I can't keep."

Steve rolled his eyes but said nothing. In truth, he was glad to be back on active duty, too; he and Natasha were already going stir-crazy being cooped up in the office for so long. Of course, the way that Ross had described it, the stakeout would consist of a lot of pointless waiting around with little to no prospect that the suspect would make an appearance. Ah well, at least for the time being, they were back in the field where they belonged.


	4. Chapter 4

Later that evening, just ten minutes shy of six o'clock, Natasha and Steve pulled up to a quiet, tidy street in the center of Red Hook. On the left side of the street was a long line of brown rowhouses and on the right was a series of apartment buildings. Natasha pulled the handbrake, switched off the engine and took in her new surroundings.

"Here we are," she sighed, exiting the Toyota Tundra. "This looks like a nice little neighborhood."

"It looks a lot nicer now compared to what it was like when I was a kid," Steve mused, slamming the car door shut behind him. Natasha raised her eyebrows in surprise.

"You grew up here?"

Steve nodded. "My ma and I lived in an apartment a couple of blocks away. That was before it was gentrified, of course. I probably couldn't afford to live here anymore, certainly not on a detective's salary."

Steve and Natasha wandered down the street looking for the house that the FBI had arranged to be their base of operations. Though the neighborhood was mostly refurbished, some run-down buildings remained. Soon, one particularly shabby-looking apartment block came into view. The front of the building was covered in scaffolding but Steve suspected it had been a long time since anyone had done any repairs; most of the windows were broken, and of the few that remained intact, the glass was grey with years of grime and neglect.

"Nat, what number are we looking for again?" he asked cautiously.

Natasha pulled out her phone and checked the address. "129, Pioneer Street, Apartment 45." She stopped dead when she spotted the building and her shoulders sagged. "Oh, you have got to be shitting me!"

Natasha and Steve stared up at the derelict building that would be their base of operations for the foreseeable future.

"The feds weren't kidding about budget cuts, were they?" he joked.

Natasha grumbled under her breath and stalked towards the broken security door. She kicked it open as she marched inside, closely followed by Steve, who wasn't surprised to see the interior was also in a state of neglect; the yellowed paint that adorned the corridor was peeling off of the walls and the smell of urine was overpowering. Their footsteps echoed on the damp concrete steps as they climbed higher and higher, up four flights of stairs, until they found a door with the number 45 scrawled across the front of it in black marker pen. As they reached the correct landing, the door to the apartment flew open and they were greeted by Clint, who had a large blue sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders.

"Hey, guys! Welcome to Casa del Barton, I will be your concierge. Please, come in. Let me show you around!" He stepped aside and bowed, ushering them inside.

Natasha and Steve cautiously stepped over the threshold into the dilapidated apartment. Thankfully, it didn't smell of urine but that was about the only positive thing that Steve could say about it; the exposed floorboards were rotten and they had to take care not to trip over the piles of garbage that littered the hallway. Natasha pulled her coat a little closer around her neck.

"I guess there's no central heating?" she asked.

"Nope, but we do have electricity," Clint informed them cheerfully, leading them down the corridor. "Kitchen's to the right, living room's here on the left."

Entering the living room, they found Sam sitting by the window with a notepad on his lap, looking through a telescope. He greeted them without looking up but his voice was muffled because he had a thick woollen scarf wrapped around his face.

"Anything to report?" asked Steve, looking around the threadbare room. The only furnishings were a collapsed sofa pushed into the corner of the room and a heavily-graffitied coffee table in front of it. Clint nodded and sat on the arm of the sofa.

"Yeah, we found a decent Chinese takeout a few blocks away. They also deliver so I grabbed one of their menus…"

"I was talking about the job, Clint," said Steve flatly.

"Ah. Well then, no. Barnes has been at work all day and there's been no suspicious activity around the house, so it's been a pretty uneventful shift."

"We did see a cat wandering around the perimeter of Barnes's house, so unless we're expanding our potential list of suspects to felines, absolutely nothing else of interest happened." Sam yawned, rubbing his tired eyes. He slowly got to his feet and groaned as he stretched out his stiff arms. "Oh man, I'm getting too old for this shit."

"Well, I wasn't going to say anything..." Natasha smirked at him and took the seat which he had just vacated. Clint pulled off his sleeping bag and wrapped it around shoulders.

"Kept it warm for ya," he said gently, smiling warmly at her before adjusting the string on his bomber hat and clapping his hands together. "Well, Sam and I would love to stay and chat but we need to defrost our asscheeks and get some well-earned shut-eye."

"See you guys in the morning," Sam waved them off, following Clint out of the apartment.

"Sweet dreams!" Natasha called after them and a moment later the apartment door slammed shut. She sighed and looked woefully around the apartment. "Home sweet home."

Steve picked up the menu for Wong's Chinese Takeout from the coffee table and turned it over in his hand. "You hungry?"

"Starving." Natasha got to her feet and, wrapping the sleeping bag around her body, she shuffled into the kitchen. "If we're lucky there'll be some leftovers in the fridge—what the hell? Oh, Barton, you are a dead man."

"What is it?" Steve called. Natasha shuffled back into the living room brandishing a picture of what looked like Bruce Lee. Upon closer inspection, Steve snorted when he realized that Natasha's face had been crudely photoshopped onto the martial artist's body.

"He had this sellotaped to the fridge," she huffed.

Steve gave her a sly grin and shrugged. "Personally, I think the resemblance is uncanny."

"Hilarious," she replied flatly, scrunching up the picture and tossing it into a corner. "Just for that, _you're_ buying dinner tonight."

If all he had to do to appease his partner was buy her dinner, Steve was happy to oblige. Within thirty minutes, there was a polite knock at the door and Steve hurried from his uncomfortable position on the collapsed sofa to answer it. When he opened the door, a young man with messy brown hair and a blue hoodie bearing the words _Georgetown School of Science and Technology_ stood smiling up at him holding out a large paper bag that smelled strongly of Chinese food.

"Hi!" he greeted Steve cheerfully. "Oh man, am I glad that someone answered the door. I took one look at the apartment building and thought that maybe the order was a prank caller! Good thing that it wasn't, otherwise my boss would have taken the order out of my paycheck. Have you just moved here recently? It doesn't look like you've had the chance to decorate yet. Oh! Here's your order, that'll be twenty-two dollars, please."

Steve cocked his eyebrow at the man. Most people weren't this friendly in New York, let alone in this particular corner of town. Steve took the proffered bag from the young man's outstretched arms before pulling out two notes and handed them over. When the young man began to rummage through his pockets, Steve told him to keep the change, which earned him a beaming smile.

"Thanks, mister!" he called brightly, bounding down the stairs two steps at a time. "Enjoy your meal. And welcome to the neighborhood!"

Steve watched him disappear out of sight down the dank stairwell before closing the door behind him and heading back into the living room. Natasha smiled gratefully at Steve when he handed her the takeout box and when she opened the lid she closed her eyes and breathed in deeply.

"Mmm, damn that smells good," she groaned, spearing the Kung Po Shrimp with her chopsticks before popping the tasty morsel into her mouth. "Who the hell was that at the door? They sounded suspiciously cheerful for someone around these parts."

Steve shrugged, twisting the thick, stir-fried noodles of his beef chow mein around his chopsticks. "Just some kid."

"Well, the kid is welcome any time, he was quick getting the food here," she mumbled through a mouthful of food. She glanced out of the window at the house across the road and smirked. "Hey, looks like the cat's back."

Steve sat his dinner on the coffee table, got to his feet and crossed the room to peer out of the window with Natasha. Sure enough, a snow-white cat was perched on the front window of Barnes's apartment, licking its paws and cleaning its head.

"Reckon it's a suspect?" Natasha joked.

"Keep an eye on its movements," said Steve with mock seriousness.

Just then, Steve heard a low rumbling sound that steadily grew louder. He looked up and down the street for the source of the noise and a few moments later a large, black motorcycle appeared. He grabbed the binoculars sitting on the window sill as the bike pulled up outside of Barnes's apartment and the groan of the engine cut off as the rider dismounted. Clad in black leathers and wearing a large backpack, the rider fiddled with the strap of his helmet, which had a large red, five-pointed star on it.

"This looks like our guy," said Natasha, her eyes fixed on the rider, who pulled off the helmet to reveal shoulder-length brown hair which he shook free and ran his hand through before trudging up the steep stone steps to his apartment building.

"Hello, James Buchanan Barnes," said Natasha softly, peering at him through the telescope. "Nice to finally make your acquaintance."

When Barnes reached the top of the staircase, the white cat leapt from the window ledge and wrapped its tail around his leg, nuzzling its head against him. Barnes bent down to scratch the feline behind the ears before straightening again and opening the apartment door. The cat slipped in ahead of him and Barnes followed it inside, closing the door behind him. Natasha sat back in her chair, checked her watch and scribbled a couple of lines in the notepad.

"The time is 18:47, Barnes has returned to his apartment. The cat appears to be an accomplice of his."

"The picture we have of him is really outdated," said Steve thoughtfully, placing the binoculars back onto the window sill. He pulled out his case files from his backpack and sat on the edge of the sofa, flicking through Barnes's file in order to take another look at the driver's license. It was definitely the same person—the same cupid bow lips, same rugged complexion—but gone was the buzzcut, replaced with a long, swept-back style. Steve thought that he suited the long hair better, but he kept that observation to himself.

Natasha gave a careless shrug. "The license is dated from 2012 and people can change a lot in a short period of time. Christ, you should see Clint's license photo, he really thought that slicked back style was a good look on him…"

"It doesn't look like Barnes has any social media presence, either," Steve continued, snapping the file shut and tossing it onto the coffee table before pulling out his phone. He googled the name James Buchanan Barnes in several variations but no pictures or information of any kind came up of the man living in the apartment across the road. "Either this guy is a complete technophobe or he's deliberately staying under the radar."

"Well, considering who is ex is, can you blame the guy?" Natasha asked, discarding the empty food container at her feet. "Assault and battery, assault with a deadly weapon, armed robbery...that Rumlow fella is as bad as they come."

"You can say that again," said Steve darkly, pulling Rumlow's file towards him. He'd already read it cover to cover a couple of times, but it didn't do any harm to keep the facts fresh in his mind. Besides, there was little else to do to occupy his time while Natasha took the first couple of hours watching Barnes's house.

Steve paused at the photograph of Brock Rumlow clad in his Special Forces uniform, staring out of the photograph with his head held high and the stars and stripes adorning the background. Clean-shaven with the distinct green beret atop his head, he looked like an all-American hero. But based on the report Steve and his team had been given by the feds, the heroic image was all a facade. Despite being awarded a Commendation Medal for bravery during his tour of Afghanistan, Rumlow's military record outlined a long history of violent and aggressive behavior. It was only after a drunken bar brawl in Club Fenris that resulted in the death of one of the patrons that Rumlow's already tumultuous career in the military came to an abrupt end. Charged with involuntary manslaughter, he served a year-long sentence before being dishonorably discharged.

From there, things took a downward turn for Rumlow as his post-military career involved petty crimes. This quickly escalated into the murky world of illegal narcotics, which eventually led to the murder of a federal agent and, finally, his life sentence in Seagate Penitentiary. Steve scanned through Rumlow's file again for any mention of Barnes, curious at what point the two men had crossed paths, but found nothing of note. The only indication that the two men even knew each other was a photocopy of the prison's visitor sign-in sheet. Barnes's neat signature showed that he had visited Rumlow on only one occasion in the four years since his incarceration and that had been in the first few weeks after Rumlow was sentenced.

Steve closed the file again and sighed. Based on the evidence in front of him, the chances of Rumlow paying Barnes a visit seemed pretty slim. It looked like he and his team were going to have a few uneventful weeks ahead of them. He made a mental note to bring his sketchbook for tomorrow night's shift because he was going to need something to do to fill in the hours while they were cooped up in this shitty apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

It would come as a surprise to no one that working for the stakeout unit required lots of patience. Steve had lost count of the number of hours he'd sat at a window just like this one, watching people go about their lives, all of them unaware that they were under his watchful eye. Peggy had always thought that it was a creepy invasion of privacy, even if she understood that the work Steve did was necessary, but he had never seen it that way. If sitting in a shitty apartment for hours on end eating Chinese food meant that he could get someone like Rumlow off the streets, it was well worth the long hours and subpar wages. And if the person that he was watching just happened to be drop-dead gorgeous...well, nobody was going to hear Steve complaining.

The first couple of hours of their shift had passed in relative silence as Nat sat crosslegged on the sofa doing crossword puzzles while Steve sat sentry by the window and watched Barnes's house. While the apartment the feds had provided them was hardly the Ritz, it did provide the perfect view straight into the apartment across the street. Steve watched as Barnes (now wearing a white tank top and sweatpants) entered the kitchen, grabbed a beer from the fridge (an Ochakovo, by the looks of it) and wandered back into the living room. Flopping back onto the couch, Barnes put his bare feet up on the coffee table and took a protracted swig from the dark brown bottle. The telescope was powerful enough that Steve could see Barnes's Adam's apple move up and down his slender throat as he swallowed.

"Handsome," said Natasha suddenly.

Steve's stomach did a small backflip and he looked sharply at his partner. "What was that?"

"The clue is "to find someone handsome." A ten-letter word beginning with the letter A," she added thoughtfully without looking up from her crossword. "Any ideas?"

"Attraction," he replied, pressing his eye to the telescope again.

"Yeah, that fits," Natasha mumbled to herself. "Speaking of handsome, that Barnes fella's quite a looker, ain't he?"

Steve felt heat prickle the back of his neck then. He could sense Natasha's inquisitive eyes on him, but he refused to look at her. "I suppose so. I hadn't really noticed."

"Really?" she replied, sounding unconvinced. "I think he's cute."

"Well, why don't you ask him out on a date, then?" he huffed.

"I prefer blondes," she replied lazily. "You, on the other hand, have always had a thing for brunettes."

"I'm not so desperate for companionship that I would consider dating someone under surveillance."

"Barnes isn't the criminal, Rumlow is," Natasha pointed out. "And I'm not suggesting that you date the guy. All I'm saying is that you should enjoy the view. God only knows how long we're going to be stuck here in this hellhole."

Steve pursed his lips and said nothing. Sometimes it was annoying how well Natasha knew him. He told himself that he was watching Barnes so intently because there wasn't much else to do, but there was some truth to what his partner had said: despite feeling a tad guilty about it, he was rather enjoying the view. Barnes yawned and lazily teased his fingers through his long, brown hair, his eyes never wavering from the television screen that was out of Steve's range of view. Steve wondered what program he was watching, silently mesmerized by the white light from the screen flickering and dancing across his handsome face.

_Definitely not a comedy,_ he thought to himself since the man hadn't once cracked a smile.

Steve didn't watch a lot of television himself, preferring to listen to records on his ma's old vinyl player, usually while he worked through case notes at the dining table. He wondered what kind of music Barnes listened to; based on the motorcycle, leathers and long hair, Steve guessed that he probably listened to rock music. This was a game that Steve and his team often played to wile away the time on long, dull stakeouts—they'd make up little stories for the people that they watched. What their favorite music was, were they funny or serious, where they'd go on vacation...Steve decided that Barnes probably watched reruns of _The Sopranos_ and he didn't look like the type that went on vacation very often (the latter of which they had in common, he thought ruefully).

After another hour of sitting on the sofa, Barnes switched off the television, got to his feet, stretched and yawned, then slowly made his way upstairs, reappearing a few moments later in the bedroom with a toothbrush in his mouth. Steve yawned and rubbed his tired eyes, jealous that he wasn't home in his own bed. He checked his watch and stifled a groan. Great, only another eight hours until shift change.

Peering through the telescope again, Steve watched as Barnes exited and re-entered his bedroom, minus the toothbrush. Barnes slipped off his tank top to reveal a lean and muscular torso, bunching up the top in his hands before tossing the garment in the far corner of the room. Steve felt the heat rise in his cheeks and he tore his eyes away, feeling flustered. Of course he'd seen people undress before—it was part and parcel of the job—but then again, he hadn't been immediately attracted to any of them before. He cast a quick glance in Natasha's direction, paranoid that she would somehow know what he had seen, but his partner was still engrossed in her crossword puzzle. Running his hand roughly through his hair, Steve cautiously looked through the telescope again and found Barnes sitting in bed with the bedside lamp on and reading a book, his bare chest partially covered with the bedsheets.

"See anything interesting?" asked Natasha.

"Nope," he lied.

"You sure?" she asked wryly. "'Cause you're glued to that scope like your life depends on it."

"Just doing my job," he replied evasively. "You know that I like to be thorough."

"Mmhmm…"

Within half an hour, Barnes tossed his book onto his bedside table and switched off the lamp, plunging the bedroom into darkness. Feeling slightly disappointed and relieved that Barnes had finally gone to sleep, Steve made a quick note of the time in the logbook and sat back in his chair with a heavy sigh.

"Affected by love," Natasha mused, chewing on the end of her pen. "Seven letters, begins in S and ends in N. Any ideas?"

"Smitten," Steve replied, glancing at the darkened house across the road.

* * *

As expected, the rest of the evening passed without incident. Natasha and Steve took turns watching the house, but Barnes didn't stir again until five-thirty in the morning.

"Our boy is up," Natasha informed Steve as he lay dozing on the lumpy sofa. Steve checked his watch and frowned.

"Jeez, he's an early riser," he mused, groaning as he got to his feet. Christ, that sofa was doing nothing for his lumbar support. He was sorely tempted to buy another sofa secondhand from one of the local thrift stores. Hobbling over to Natasha's side, he picked up the binoculars from the window ledge before asking, "What's he doing up at this hour?"

Steve's question was quickly answered when the front door to the apartment opened and the white cat slipped out, closely followed by Barnes wearing black running shorts and a red hoodie. While the cat turned left and stalked down the street, Barnes turned right and began jogging in the opposite direction.

"So, he goes to bed at a reasonable hour and runs to keep fit. He's almost as boring as you are," Natasha teased, smiling up at Steve.

"Impossible. Nobody is as boring as I am."

"You got that right," she laughed.

Glancing at her watch, she noted down what time Barnes had exited the premises in the logbook before closing it and, inexplicably, snapped the ballpoint pen in half. Steve watched with growing bemusement as Natasha grabbed the binoculars out of his hands and began dripping black ink from the broken pen around the eyepieces.

"Care to explain what you're doing?" he asked.

"Oh, nothing," she said lightly, carefully placing the binoculars back onto the windowsill. "Just getting a little payback for Clint's constant kung fu jokes."

When Clint and Sam arrived to start their shift a few minutes later, Natasha smiled innocently at the pair when she greeted them.

"Barnes is out for a run at the moment," she explained. "Other than that, it was a very quiet and uneventful night."

"Is the cat still hanging around?" asked Clint keenly, crossing the room to pick up the binoculars. Steve opened his mouth to warn Clint of Natasha's little prank, but it was too late; Clint pressed the binoculars to his eyes and peered out of the window while Natasha smiled like a Cheshire cat.

"Yeah, it's still around," she replied, unable to disguise the amusement in her voice. "Turns out it's Barnes's cat."

"Ah, an accomplice!" Clint joked. He lowered the binoculars and turned to face his teammates, now with two large black circles painted around his eyes. His smile immediately fell as Steve and Sam snorted with laughter.

"Say cheese," said Natasha gleefully, snapping a picture of him on her phone. "This is definitely going on Instagram…"

"What have you done?" he asked worriedly, rubbing his hand over his face and smudging the ink over his eyes. He frowned at the sight of the black ink smeared across his hand and hurried out of the living room. A moment later, Clint's cries of anger could be heard from the bathroom and the trio burst into fits of laughter. While an incensed Clint chased Natasha around the flat, Steve filled Sam in on the evening's events.

"Did you bring the bug for the house?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. "Nah, man. I went to the precinct this morning to pick up the equipment but Fury said the feds haven't issued a warrant yet."

Steve groaned in frustration. "Seriously? How do they expect us to do our job when we don't even have the basics in place?"

Sam shrugged. "You know what they're like. We're on a low priority op, they'll get around to kitting us out when it suits them."

"I won't hold my breath," said Steve darkly.

Steve and Natasha left the apartment a few minutes later, both glad to hand the reins over to their teammates for the rest of the day. Heading downstairs and out of the apartment building, Natasha stifled a yawn.

"I can handle the long hours," she said, trudging down the sidewalk towards her parked car. "But the cold is unbearable."

"I'll bring a couple of extra sleeping bags tonight to keep us warm," Steve offered.

"Appreciate it," Natasha replied, rummaging through her front pocket for her keys. "In return, I'll buy dinner tonight."

Just as they reached Natasha's car, Barnes rounded the corner and ran in their direction. The pair kept their cool as Barnes ran past them without giving them so much as a second glance. Steve watched after him, thinking how strange it was that he had just spent an entire evening—the first of many—watching this man, learning about his life and routine, and Barnes would never be any the wiser.

"Earth to Steve," said Natasha, lightly punching him on the arm. "Stop gawking at him and get in the car. I want to go home."

"I wasn't gawking," Steve protested weakly, taking his seat on the passenger's side. "I was just daydreaming. It's been a long shift for me too, you know."

"Yes, a very long, difficult shift staring at a big, muscular hunk of a man. Let me play the world's smallest violin for ya," she gibed.

"If you're gonna be a smartass for the whole journey, I'd rather get the bus," he grumbled.

"Alright alright, I'll lay off," she relented, pulling out from the curb. As she passed the apartment building where Sam and Clint were undoubtedly watching, Nat chuckled and flipped the bird at their window as she drove past. "Sorry Steve, it's just been a long time since I've seen you get all flustered about someone. It's kinda cute."

"It's not cute," he argued, crossing his arms across his chest and glaring out the window at the passing houses. "It's unprofessional."

"You haven't even done anything!" Natasha cried. "Like I said, there's nothing wrong with looking. And who knows? Maybe once the case is wrapped up, if you just so happen to cross paths with Mr Barnes in the Asgard Club or Ramonda's Salon…"

"Mmm, maybe," he replied noncommittally, thinking that actually sounded like quite a good idea. It had been a long time since he had been out drinking in a bar, longer still since he had tried picking anyone up. He was incredibly rusty at it, but Peggy had always said that he could be incredibly charming when he wanted to be. Maybe he just needed to bite the bullet, go up to the guy, and introduce himself.

_'Hi, I'm Steve. I'm a New York Police Detective and I've been watching your movements night and day. Can I buy you a drink?'_

Steve imagined Barnes's reaction to his brutal honesty and cringed. No, it was better just to observe and report. Once the case was wrapped up, Steve would move on and forget all about the handsome man in the apartment building with the snow-white cat. This was one of the reasons that Steve had been so reluctant to start dating again after his marriage to Peggy broke down: relationships were complicated and messy, and when things went wrong—as they always seemed to do—they hurt like hell. Even if he was lonely, it was safer for all concerned just to avoid trouble and heartache.


	6. Chapter 6

Of course, Steve's plan to avoid James Buchanan Barnes was shortlived.

The team spent the next few days watching Barnes's house, unable to intercept his phone calls until the FBI issued a warrant. Not that they hadn't found ways to occupy themselves in that time: While Sam spent every waking hour texting his new girlfriend, Clint and Natasha continued to prank one another, each trick growing more elaborate than the last. First, Clint retaliated to Natasha sabotaging his binoculars by completing all of the crosswords in her puzzle book. Incensed, Natasha responded by putting Clint's binoculars inside jello. Clint caused outrage when he left a box of mayonnaise-filled donuts for Natasha and Steve, who in return arranged for a sing-a-gram to turn up at his apartment when he was supposed to be sleeping. She had received an angry phone call from her beau after that, warning her not to mess with his precious hours of rest, but Natasha just laughed and said that it was worth whatever vengeance he had in store for her.

Steve, meanwhile, sat by the window and watched Barnes. The man, much like Steve, seemed to be a creature of habit; at five-thirty each morning he would leave his apartment for a forty-five-minute run before having a quick breakfast and heading out to work at the salon. He'd return home around seven in the evening, have his dinner, then watch tv while nursing a couple of beers before heading to bed to read his book for thirty minutes and then going to sleep. For three nights of the week, Barnes would have his dinner, then grab a quick shower before heading out on his bike again to work at the Asgard Club, finally returning home at three am before starting his daily routine all over again. Steve had been watching Barnes for a week now and, in that time, he hadn't called anyone and he'd had no visitors. Nobody had tried to call him, either. His only company seemed to be the cat, which Steve and Natasha had christened Alpine because of its snow-white fur.

To help pass the time, Steve brought along his sketchbook. When he wasn't sitting at the window, he drew everything and anything: a portrait of Natasha peering through the telescope, still lifes of the garbage strewn across the living room, illustrations of the surrounding buildings...he even managed a couple of quick sketches of Barnes's cat when it was on the prowl. Of course, he couldn't help but do a couple of drawings of Barnes: one of him sitting at the kitchen table eating his dinner, another one of him curled up in front of the television...Steve had spent so many hours looking at the man he could probably draw him from memory by now. When Natasha spied his little drawings, she teased him mercilessly, but she also commented on how good they were, which Steve appreciated.

Even the takeout boy had become part of their daily routine. Every night, Natasha and Steve would call Wong's for a home delivery and the same kid (who called himself Pete) would be the one to deliver it, as bubbly and talkative as ever. Natasha had eyed the kid suspiciously at first, cautious of his overly sunny disposition, but after a few days, she warmed to Pete and always left him a generous tip.

They had quickly developed a routine, but just when Steve began to wonder if there would be any progress in the operation, finally, after eight long days, Natasha pulled up to Steve's apartment and pointed to the large pile of twisted wires and electronic equipment in the backseat.

"Good news! The feds came through with the wiretap," she announced brightly, pulling away from the curb and speeding down the road. "We got a cell-site simulator just in case, but I haven't seen Barnes use a cell phone. Looks like we're gonna have to go old school and tap his landline instead."

"Damn, this guy really is off the grid," said Steve thoughtfully. "So, who's drawing the short straw and climbing up the utility pole to fit the wire?"

"Well, I did grab some overalls from the precinct. Unfortunately, they didn't have any in my size," she pouted. "So, it looks like you'll be climbing up the pole tonight, Tarzan. I've got a ladder in the cargo bed."

"Right," Steve sighed.

He didn't believe for a second that there weren't any overalls that would fit Natasha, but he decided not to push the matter. To be honest, he didn't mind scaling the utility pole if it meant getting out of that dingy apartment for a short while. Once they had caught up with Sam and Clint (again, they had nothing of interest to report since Barnes had been out at work all day), Steve got kitted out in his disguise. He stood in the middle of the living room and turned on the spot, dressed in his navy blue overalls with _Hammer Cellular_ printed on the back, a white hard hat and utility belt.

"How do I look?" he asked. Natasha gave him a once over and shrugged.

"Like a telephone repairman."

"Good." Steve picked up the equipment he'd need to tap Barnes's phone and slipped it into his utility belt. "Do you mind ordering dinner while I'm out? This shouldn't take too long."

"Sure thing." Natasha walked Steve to the door. "What're you in the mood for tonight?"

Steve thought for a moment. "Beef chow mein?"

Natasha flashed him a smile and tossed him her car keys, which he caught in mid-air. "You got it."

Steve exited the apartment building through the back door into the small square garden that was littered with garbage, careful not to trip on any of the trash bags or building materials that had been illegally dumped there. Using an old sofa for leverage, Steve took his time climbing over the wooden fence to the adjoining street where they had parked Natasha's truck. Taking his place in the driver's seat, Steve put the keys into the ignition and paused when he noticed one of the keychains attached was a photograph of Natasha and Clint hugging each other and smiling. Smirking to himself, he made a mental note to tease Natasha about this after he'd put the wiretap in place.

Within thirty seconds, Steve pulled the truck up to the utility pole outside of Barnes's house. It might have been a while since he had last done this but it didn't take long for Steve to scale the ladder, pry open the junction box and plug the wiretap that connected Barnes's telephone to the one in their apartment. Mission accomplished. Steve pulled out his cell and called Natasha.

"You done?" she asked without greeting him.

"Yup, just wondering if you want me to fix us up with some free cable while I'm up here," he joked.

"I'd rather you hook us up with some central heating."

"I'm afraid that is beyond my paygrade."

"Ah well, it was worth a shot," she sighed. "Dinner should be here soon. I got us some spring rolls."

"Great. I'll be back round in a minute."

Steve slipped his phone into his pocket and began to scale back down the ladder, his thoughts firmly on his dinner, when he heard a low growl that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He looked down towards the ground and had to stifle a scream when he realized that a very large, very mean-looking golden retriever sat at the foot of the ladder. Teeth bared and snarling, the dog's hair was matted with dirt and its left eye was missing. Steve stood frozen with fear on the ladder, unsure of what to do. He cleared his throat and waved to the canine.

"Nice doggy…"

The dog responded immediately by barking furiously and trying to scramble up the ladder towards Steve. Steve yelped in fright and clambered higher up the ladder out of the mad dog's reach. Okay, being nice to it didn't work. Maybe he could try a different tactic.

"Shoo!" he shouted, waving his hand wildly at the dog. "Go on, get lost!"

Steve wasn't surprised when that had no effect either. Cursing under his breath, he pulled out his phone and called Natasha. It only rang once when she answered it.

"Nat! I need your help," he pleaded.

"What are you still doing up the ladder?" she asked, sounding unmoved by the panic in Steve's voice. After a short pause, she added, "Ah. You're playing with that dog, I see."

_"Playing?"_ Steve cried. "Are you blind? It'll bite my head off if I go anywhere near it!"

"Well, what do you expect me to do about it?"

"Come down here and help me!" he said irritably. Looking down at the ground again, he saw that the dog had taken to circling the utility pole, its dark eye never wavering from him. Steve heard Natasha snort.

"And let the dog chase me around the block instead? I don't think so, pal."

"Nat!"

"Alright, alright! I'm thinking…" she sighed. "Why don't you just use your firearm?"

"I am not shooting the dog, Natasha!" he cried indignantly.

"I didn't say shoot it!" she argued. "I meant just fire a shot into the air to scare it off."

Although Steve couldn't see Natasha from this distance, he turned towards the window that she would be watching him out of and threw her a withering look. "First of all, that's illegal. In case you need reminding, you are a police officer…"

"Oh, here we go," she groaned. He could imagine her rolling her eyes at him but he wasn't going to back down now.

"Secondly, if I _did_ fire my gun, that bullet is going to land somewhere and I won't risk hitting someone with a stray."

There was a short pause then Natasha mumbled, "Fair point."

"And finally, don't you think if someone heard a gunshot that they would call the police? How the hell am I going to explain the situation to a beat cop? We'd blow our cover!"

"Alright! You made your point," she snapped. "Okay, I'll call animal control and see how quickly I can get someone down here."

"Thank you," he replied curtly before hanging up the phone on his partner. He shook his head in disbelief and stowed his cell phone back into his pocket. Honestly, Natasha was a brilliant detective, but sometimes her moral judgments left a lot to be desired. He looked down at the dog again, which stared right back at him, waiting patiently for him to descend the ladder. Steve sighed and rested his head against one of the steel steps. He never thought that he'd be missing the gloomy little apartment, but with the sky rapidly turning from a dull grey to inky black, there was a marked drop in the temperature. Steve started to shiver and tried rubbing his hands together to stave off the cold, but it was a pointless endeavor: up this high, he was exposed to the elements.

Steve felt his phone buzz and he pulled it out out of his pocket, careful not to drop it since his hands had gone numb with the cold. He had a text message from Natasha informing him that animal control would be there within the hour, but Steve was afraid that he would be frozen to the ladder by then. Just when he was beginning to consider taking his chances with the dog rather than risk freezing to death, the low rumble of a motorcycle approaching grabbed his attention.

The troublesome dog's ears pricked up at the sound as well. It wagged its tail as Barnes pulled up to the curb and parked his bike beside the utility pole. Steve shouted to Barnes, warning him of the danger that he was in, but to his shock and annoyance, the dog barked at Barnes in greeting and sniffed his shoes as he dismounted the bike. Barnes gave the dog an affectionate scratch behind the ear and it responded by licking the palm of his leather glove before trotting off down the street, leaving Steve staring after it.

"Hey man, are you alright?"

Steve glanced down again to find Barnes looking up at him with a curious expression. After countless hours of watching Barnes from the living room window, he realized that this was the first time that he had heard the man's voice. He was more soft-spoken than Steve expected him to be, with a pleasant, smoky quality to his voice and a hint of an accent that he couldn't quite place.

Realizing that he hadn't yet answered the question, Steve cleared his throat and nodded. "Uh, yeah. That dog just took an instant dislike to me."

A small smile quirked the corner of Barnes's mouth. "Yeah, I noticed. You can come down now, the coast is clear."

"Oh. Yeah…" Steve climbed down the ladder, his limbs stiff and sore from the cold. When his feet hit solid ground, he smiled gratefully at Barnes. "Thanks for your help."

Barnes shrugged. "No problem. How long were you up there?"

"A while."

Barnes gave him a once-over and Steve felt the heat rise in his cheeks. "Well, you must be freezing. Come on in and I'll make you a coffee to heat you up."

"Oh no, you don't have to do that," Steve protested, but Barnes shook his head and beckoned him to follow.

"It's really no trouble. I was gonna make a cup for myself anyway."

Steve hesitated. His every instinct was telling him that he should decline the offer and get the hell out of there, but a little voice in the back of his mind attempted to justify the situation: wouldn't it look more suspicious to leave in a hurry without an explanation? It would certainly be rude of him. Shouldn't he just play along for the time being? Grab a coffee, say thank you, and leave. Casting a sideways glance at the window where Natasha would undoubtedly be watching, Steve nodded and, after taking off his hard hat, he followed Barnes up the steep stone steps to his apartment.

Barnes unlocked the front door and beckoned Steve inside, "I'm Bucky, by the way."

_Bucky?_

"Steve." Damnit, why did he tell him his real name? He took Barnes's (well, Bucky's, apparently) outstretched gloved hand and gave it a firm shake before stepping into the darkened hallway. He jumped as he felt something warm and soft brush against his leg but relaxed when he realized that it was the snow-white cat. Bucky flipped on the light switch and grinned at the feline.

"Misha, lyubImaya moya," he crooned, kicking the front door shut with his foot and giving her a quick pat on the head. "You're not allergic are you, Steve?"

"Um, no. You speak Russian?" he asked, sounding surprised.

"My mother was Russian," Bucky replied simply, straightening up and walking into the kitchen. Steve took a mental note of the past tense and followed suit. Bucky switched on the kitchen light and beelined for the coffee maker. "How'd you like your coffee?"

"Black with two sugars, please," Steve replied, cautiously taking a seat at the kitchen table. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he checked it while Bucky busied himself with making their drinks, retrieving soy milk from the fridge and grabbing two mugs from one of the cabinets. A message from Natasha popped up on the screen: _What the hell are you doing?_

Steve was sure that he could feel Natasha's eyes boring into the back of his neck. He sent her a quick reply: _Improvising. Don't worry, I won't be long._

His phone buzzed again as he slipped it back into his pocket but he didn't bother to check the message this time. He knew that he'd never hear the end of it from Natasha, but he would worry about that later.

"So, what were you doing up the ladder before the neighborhood guard dog set his sights on you?" asked Bucky.

"Telephone line was down," Steve lied easily. "We had a few complaints from your neighbors, so I was sent out to repair it." The phone in Steve's pocket buzzed again but he ignored it. "Neighborhood guard dog, you say?"

Bucky shrugged and carefully placed a mug of steaming hot coffee in front of Steve. "I've seen him around from time to time. He's usually no trouble, but he doesn't like strangers."

"Ah. Well, thanks for rescuing me, I guess," Steve raised his cup to Bucky before taking a sip.

The hot liquid slid down his throat and into his empty stomach, heating him at his core. Barnes (_Bucky,_ he had to remind himself) made a mean cup of joe. Bucky took the seat next to Steve and smiled at him, his smile as warm and inviting as the cup of coffee in his hands.

"My pleasure," he purred, taking a sip of his own. "So, how long have you been working for _Hammer?"_

"Who?"

Bucky cocked an eyebrow at him. _"Hammer Cellular._ That is the company that you work for, isn't it?"

Steve stared blankly at Bucky for a couple of seconds before he remembered his cover story and his eyes widened with recognition. "Oh! Of course. Yes, um…" Steve took a protracted drink to gather his thoughts before speaking again, the coffee burning his throat as he swallowed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he replied hoarsely, "I haven't worked for them for too long. I used to work for _Pym Tech_ but _Hammer's_ wages are better, so…"

Bucky nodded in understanding. "I hear ya. You gotta follow the money, those bills won't pay themselves."

"Yeah," Steve laughed nervously. "What about you? You a mechanic or something?"

Bucky smiled again. "What makes you say that?"

"Dunno. The bike and leathers, I suppose. You look like you do something...physically laboring." Steve could hear himself rambling and silently admonished himself for talking like a complete idiot. A flirty idiot at that, what the hell was that 'physically laboring' comment about? Mercifully, Bucky seemed to find his comment more charming that idiotic. His smile broadened and he bowed his head.

"Nah, nothing like that," he chuckled. "I'm actually a hairdresser, if you would believe it."

"Really?" Steve replied, trying to sound surprised. Bucky nodded and took another sip of his coffee.

"When you're taking care of four younger siblings, you learn some interesting skill sets along the way," he said wryly.

Steve whistled. "Four siblings? Your house must have been wild."

"And loud," said Bucky, nodding in agreement. "All girls, too: Kimberly, Winnie, Georgina, and Rebecca. Becca's the youngest and takes a little too much after me, unfortunately. She doesn't know how to keep her nose clean."

_Don't I know it,_ Steve thought to himself.

"Well, I'm jealous," he admitted. "I always wanted siblings."

"I can trade you a couple if you're interested," Bucky joked. "For all their troublemaking, I wouldn't change them for the world. You're never lonely if you've got brothers and sisters."

Steve smiled sadly at Bucky. "That sounds nice. So, how long have you worked as a hairdresser?"

"Got my first job when I was sixteen and been doing it ever since," he explained. "I do a bit of bar work too when I can, but I don't particularly enjoy it. The hours aren't all that sociable."

"Hmm, I can relate to that," Steve muttered darkly. "What bar do you work at?"

Bucky hesitated a moment before answering. "Um, The Asgard Club. Have you heard of it?"

"Yeah, I've heard of it," he replied before adding, "I've been there a couple of times, actually."

Bucky's eyes widened with surprise. "You have?"

"I haven't been there in a while," he admitted.

"Well, I'll be sure to keep my eye for you in there," Bucky said softly. "More coffee?"

One quick cup of coffee and a thank you turned into three cups and an hour-long conversation. By the time Steve left Bucky's apartment, Natasha had given up trying to call him and was probably already planning his murder. Bucky walked Steve to the front door and held it open for him.

"Thanks for the coffee," said Steve, plopping the hard hat back onto his head. "But I really need to make tracks. My boss is gonna kill me…"

"No problem," Bucky leaned against the door frame and flashed Steve a brilliant smile, which made his stomach do a backflip. "It was a real pleasure meeting you, Steve."

"Yeah, you too," he replied sincerely. "Well...goodnight."

Bucky watched Steve as he made his way down the steep set of stairs and called after him as he stepped onto the sidewalk, "You know, if you ever happen to find yourself in The Asgard Club and you see me working at the bar...feel free to come up and distract me from my work."

Steve paused and smiled up at Bucky. "Yeah, I think I could do that. See you around."

Bucky waved him off before closing the door and it was only then that Steve let out a long breath he didn't realize that he had been holding in. By some miracle, nobody had stolen the ladder he'd left propped against the utility pole. Either this neighborhood was a lot nicer than he remembered it or it was too cold even for common criminals to steal perfectly good ladders that had been left unattended. Steve made quick work folding the ladder away and stowing it in the back of Natasha's truck, driving around the block out of sight and scaling the fence back into the garden of the derelict apartment building where Natasha was waiting for him. When he entered the apartment, he found Natasha sitting by the window, arms folded and face like thunder.

"I know how it looks…" Steve began.

"What the hell are you playing at?" she demanded. "You went out to fit a goddamn wiretap and you end up having a cup of coffee and a cozy chat with Barnes?"

"Bucky."

Natasha pulled a face. "A what now?"

"He calls himself Bucky," Steve explained, perching himself on the arm of the sofa. "So it might be worthwhile checking to see if he's got any social media profiles under that name instead since we've had no luck with any other variation of his name. I actually found out quite a few interesting details that we didn't have on him previously, so feel free to chew my ass out about this, but the intel I gathered could be useful."

Natasha bit the inside of her cheek, glaring at him in silent contemplation for a moment before giving him a curt nod. "Alright. Spit it out."

"He's Russian-American—"

"Which we knew already."

"Turns out he's fluent in Russian," he continued. "Which is handy to know if he ever does answer his phone and one of his sisters call—or Rumlow, for that matter."

"Povezlo tebe, ya govoryu po-russki," she replied smugly.

"I have no idea what you just said, but I'm happy to hear that your Russian isn't rusty," he quipped. "He's working two jobs at the moment 'cause he's saving up to go to night school. He wants to be a nurse."

"Well, good for him," Natasha mumbled. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, it turns out the cat's name is Misha, not Alpine," he added.

"I'll keep that in mind," she said flatly. Natasha rolled her eyes and clicked her tongue. "Okay, maybe going over there for a coffee wasn't the worst idea in the world, but I don't think that we should tell the Captain about this. Or Sam or Clint, for that matter. The fewer people that know about this little escapade of yours, the better."

"Agreed," Steve sighed. "It was that damn dog. If it hadn't decided to chase me up the ladder, I would have been back here long before Bucky turned up."

"Barnes," Natasha corrected him. "You can't talk to him again, you realize that?"

"I know." Steve lowered his gaze, unable to quell the feeling of disappointment knowing that was probably the first and only time he'd ever get to speak to Bucky. Rather than feeling down about something that he couldn't change, Steve pushed that sad realization to the back of his mind. Getting to his feet, he headed for the kitchen. "I'm guessing dinner arrived while I was away?"

"It did," Natasha confirmed. "It'll be stone cold by now, but I left you some spring rolls."

"You're an angel," Steve called through to her.

"The hell I am!" she yelled back.


	7. Chapter 7

When Clint and Sam arrived for the shift change the next morning, Natasha and Steve told them that they had nothing new to report. The wiretap was now in place but so far, Bucky hadn't made or received any calls. They did yield some results when they searched social media again: although Bucky didn't have any active social media accounts, his youngest sister, Becca Barnes, did. Steve scrolled through her Instagram profile, which consisted mostly of pictures of Becca with her friends, but there were a handful of photographs with Bucky and their siblings, celebrating birthdays and holidays together. Based on the location Becca had tagged, the Barnes's frequented the same restaurant every time they got together, Brasserie in Hell's Kitchen. Steve wondered if the restaurant had some greater significance to the family, or maybe they just happened to be big fans of Italian cuisine. While the information wasn't immediately useful, it was an interesting insight into the man they were tasked with watching.

When Steve and Natasha turned up for the shift change later that evening, Steve stopped dead in his tracks when he entered the living room.

"What the hell is that thing doing here?" he exclaimed, pointing at the very large, very dirty-looking golden retriever lying across the sofa on Clint's lap—the very same dog that had chased him up the ladder the previous evening. The dog looked up at Steve and wagged his tail, looking completely docile as Clint scratched him behind the ear.

"I found this guy out back rummaging through the garbage cans for food," Clint explained. "Poor fella was hungry, so I brought him up here for something to eat and to warm him up."

"Poor fella nuthin'," Steve huffed. "That's the dog that tried to attack me last night."

"Noooo," Clint gasped. _"This_ dog? He's as harmless as a housefly, aren't ya, boy? Aren't ya? Yes, you are, you're as harmless as a housefly!"

Steve and Natasha scrunched up their noses in disgust as Clint cooed and cuddled the dog, which he allowed to lick his face. Sam rolled his eyes but said nothing. This was typical behavior from Clint; he had a habit of rescuing strays whenever he happened across them. His teammates had lost count of the number of mangy cats and down-and-out dogs he had rescued and rehomed. Once they had briefed each other on the day's events (again, nothing suspicious to report), Clint fashioned a makeshift collar from a piece of rope and walked his new pet project to the front door, closely followed by Natasha.

"Clint, you better not be taking that filthy mutt back to my apartment," she warned.

"Of course not! I'll take him back to mine and get him cleaned up first," said Clint brightly. "Have a fun shift!"

Natasha groaned and slammed the door shut behind him, muttering mutinously under her breath as she wandered into the kitchen. "Unbelievable. I bet it'll chew the hell out of my furniture...urgh, and those assholes have eaten everything in the fridge! Can this day get any worse?"

"I'll go to the store and get supplies," Steve offered. "What do you want?"

Natasha smiled sheepishly at him. "Donuts?"

Steve chuckled and took Natasha's car keys from her outstretched hand. "Why not? We are cops, aren't we?"

The store was only a ten-minute walk from the apartment, but the dark clouds overhead suggested that a storm was brewing and he didn't fancy trudging through the rain with their groceries, so he hopped into Natasha's truck and drove to Cho's Market. Steve took his time wandering down each aisle of the store, unsure of what he was in the mood for. He made sure to grab Natasha's donuts then threw a box of Twinkies for himself into the basket. He should probably pick up some soda, but what kind did Nat like again—Pepsi or Dr Pepper? He decided it was better just to err on the side of caution and grab both.

"Steve?"

Steve paused mid-step and turned. Walking towards him with a big smile on his face was Bucky, wearing his usual leathers and holding a basket of his own. Steve simultaneously felt butterflies and a stab of panic in his stomach as Bucky approached him. He wasn't supposed to be talking to this guy, but he couldn't turn away and ignore him either, could he? Not that he'd want to do that. Steve smiled nervously at him and gave him a small wave.

"Bucky, right? Fancy seeing you here."

Bucky smirked at him, "Well, I do live just around the corner."

Steve felt the heat rise in his cheeks and he laughed nervously. "Oh yeah. Um, how are you? No more problems with your phone connection?"

Bucky shook his head. "No, no, it's been fine, thanks." He glanced at the contents of Steve's basket and chuckled. "Huh, Twinkies. My favorite."

"Yeah?" said Steve a little too keenly. "Me too!"

"They always say 'a minute on the lips, a lifetime on the hips', but I don't really give a shit, they taste too nice," Bucky laughed.

"Oh, absolutely. Life's too short not to enjoy the good things on offer."

"Amen to that," Bucky murmured. "So, do you live locally?"

"Oh. No, just finishing up a job before heading home," Steve lied.

"Ah right. Of course…"

Steve and Bucky smiled at each other for a few moments before Steve reluctantly began to turn away.

"Well...it was nice seeing you again."

Disappointment flashed across his face but he quickly covered it with another disarming smile. "Yeah, you too. Hope to see you around, Steve."

They waved each other off, heading down opposite directions of the aisle. Steve still had to grab a couple more things but he took care not to cross paths with Bucky again. He also made a mental note not to mention this little interaction with Natasha; he was already on her shit list for yesterday's little escapade and he didn't want to spend an entire evening with her chewing him out over a meeting that was completely out of his control. A few minutes later, Steve was hurrying back to Natasha's car, two large bagfuls of groceries in his arms as the rain began to pour. Glad that he'd brought the truck, he quickly dumped the paper bags in the passenger seat and was just about to turn the ignition when he noticed Bucky exiting the store, his black backpack full of groceries. He watched as Bucky went to mount his bike, paused, then knelt down beside the back wheel of his bike.

The expression on Bucky's face quickly transformed from one of confusion into a grimace and he cursed under his breath—evidently, there was something wrong with the tire. Rising back to his feet, Bucky looked up and down the street helplessly as the rain battered down on his head, pausing when he caught sight of Steve watching him. Steve quickly averted his gaze and started the engine, embarrassed at having been caught staring. His heart began to race as Bucky began jogging towards him, waving and trying to catch his attention. Bucky stopped at the driver's side window and gave it a polite knock. Steve was half-tempted to drive away and save himself the ensuing trouble, but he found himself rolling down the window and greeting him instead.

"Hello again," he smiled.

"Hey, I'm sorry to bother you but my bike has a flat," Bucky explained, trying and failing to shield his face from the rain with his hands. "Um...you wouldn't be heading in my direction by any chance, would you?"

Steve hesitated. "Umm…"

"I'll make you a trade," said Bucky quickly. "Another cup of coffee for a ride home? I wouldn't normally ask, but with the rain…"

"Well…" Bucky looked desperately at Steve with those puppy dog eyes and what little resolve he had immediately evaporated. His shoulders sagged and he nodded. "Of course. Sure. Hold on, we'll get your bike strapped in the back of the truck in no time."

Bucky looked visibly relieved. "Thanks man, I really appreciate it."

Steve helped Bucky push the bike onto the cargo bed and used ratchet straps to secure it into place. Once the bike was safely stowed in the back of the truck, Steve and Bucky hurried inside the vehicle for some much-needed shelter. Bucky hopped into the passenger seat and immediately leapt back onto his feet.

"Shit, your groceries," he grimaced. "Sorry…"

"Don't worry about them," Steve assured him, tossing the squashed bags into the backseat. "Get in here out of the rain, you must be soaked through."

Bucky slammed the car door shut and threw his head back against the headrest, letting out a long sigh. "Holy shit, the rain is pouring now! I'm glad I'm not working at the club tonight."

Steve turned the ignition and pulled away from the curb. "Are you going to be able to get to and from work while your bike gets fixed?"

"Yeah, I can take the subway," said Bucky, brushing his sodding wet hair out of his face. "It's not ideal, but it's manageable. Oh, do you remember where I live? Just head down Dwight Street then turn left at the corner of King's."

"I think I can remember," said Steve, knowing exactly where he was going. Steve cast a sideways glance at Bucky before focusing on the road again. "That's a nice bike you've got there."

Bucky smiled at him. "Thanks, man. It's a Harley-Davidson Street 750."

"Nice," Steve replied, sounding impressed.

"You like bikes?" asked Bucky hopefully. Steve nodded.

"Yeah, I've got one myself, actually."

Bucky's eyes widened with interest. "Really?"

"An Iron 883."

Bucky whistled. "Very nice!"

"Maybe we could go out for a ride sometime," Steve heard himself saying. "If you're interested…"

It was Bucky's turn to cast Steve a sideways glance this time. He eyed him with interest, a playful smile teasing the corner of his lips. "Yeah, I'd be interested."

Steve's grip tightened a little on the steering wheel and he tried his best to focus on the road ahead of him. He was definitely interested in more than the bikes and evidently, the feeling was mutual. God, what the hell was he doing? He'd already broken about a dozen rules even talking to the guy, now he was offering him rides in Natasha's truck. He told himself that he was simply being a good Samaritan, that he couldn't leave the guy on the side of the road with a flat tire, certainly not with a killer on the loose. It would have been downright irresponsible of him to leave Bucky on the curb in the rain. He knew that Natasha wouldn't see it that way, but hopefully, a box of donuts would be enough to appease her. Steve and Bucky chatted about their passion for motorcycles as they made the short journey back to Bucky's apartment, then Steve helped him remove it from the truck before turning to leave.

"Well, this rain doesn't look like it's going to let up any time soon," he sighed. "I better make tracks."

"Whoa, hold up," Bucky called after him. "I still owe you a coffee."

"Oh, there's really no need," Steve protested but Bucky was quite persuasive.

"I know, but I want to," he said gently. "At least dry yourself off before heading out into the rain again."

Steve hung back, knowing full well that Natasha would be watching him like a hawk right now, probably wondering what the hell he was doing—hell, he didn't know what he was doing. Steve knew that he should just turn and leave, but he didn't fancy sitting in that freezing cold apartment for the rest of the night in soaking wet clothes. He'd most likely catch a fever and then he'd be too sick to work the next night, and he couldn't leave Natasha to work on her own.

"I don't want to impose…" he protested weakly.

"You're not," Bucky assured him, climbing the steps to his apartment and holding the door open for him. Finally, Steve relented.

"Alright, but only for a minute."

Bucky beamed at Steve and ushered him inside. Within a few minutes, Steve was sitting at Bucky's kitchen table (again) with a steaming hot cup of coffee in nothing but a towel and a fluffy white bathrobe. Bucky entered the kitchen with a matching bathrobe and a towel wrapped around his long hair.

"It should only take about thirty minutes to dry your clothes in the dryer," he said.

"Thank you so much," said Steve gratefully, pulling his mobile out of the bathrobe pocket. "You don't mind if I call my friend and let them know I'll be running a little late? I was supposed to meet her after work."

"Oh sure," Bucky grabbed his cup of coffee and left the kitchen to give Steve some privacy. He made sure that Bucky was out of earshot before he called Natasha, the phone only ringing once before she answered it.

"What the hell, Steve?" she yelled. "We talked about this: there is to be absolutely no contact with Barnes!"

"Hey Nat, I'm going to be a little late meeting you—"

"Get out of there now, Steve!"

"I won't be long," he reassured her, keeping his voice level. "I'm just going to have a cup of coffee with a friend and then I'll come meet you."

_"Coffee?"_ she hissed. "I know you've got more than coffee on your mind, Rogers. Where are your clothes?"

"I'll be about thirty minutes..." he continued, ignoring her query.

"Where are my donuts, you prick?" she raged.

"...Maybe more," he added. "See ya."

_"Don't you dare hang up on me, you—"_

Steve cut Natasha off and put the phone on silent. He wasn't sure if a box of donuts would be enough to appease his partner after this, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind as Bucky reentered the kitchen holding a menu for Wong's Chinese Takeaway.

"You like Chinese food?" he asked.

"Uh...yeah, I love it," Steve admitted.

Half an hour later, the coffee was drunk and Steve's clothes were dry, but he stayed in his fluffy robe, reasoning that he didn't want to risk spilling Chinese food down his work clothes. Bucky had discarded the towel around his head, his hair was still a little damp and curling from the rain and he unconsciously twirled stands between his fingers as he listened to Steve chat about growing up in Red Hook.

"You should have seen me back in the day; I was a skinny runt of a kid, always getting into fights with the bigger kids and _always_ getting my ass handed to me," he laughed. "The other kids in the neighborhood used to call me Vanilla Man because I was so straight-laced. Man, I hated that name. But it's kinda grown on me over the years."

Bucky's eyes dragged over Steve's body and he bit his plump bottom lip. "I bet most people think twice before picking a fight with you nowadays, hmm?"

"You'd be surprised how often that still happens." Steve chuckled, thinking back on all the scuffles he and Natasha had gotten themselves into over the years. It was surprising how many criminals tried to take a swing at them when they were being arrested.

"What did your parents have to say about you always getting into fights?"

Steve's smile faltered. "Well, my father died when I was little and I don't remember him all that well. So, it was just me and my ma in a small apartment not too far from here."

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Bucky sincerely. "Is your mom still around?"

Steve shook his head. "She died a couple of years back. Heart attack. What about you, are your parents still around?"

"Nah, they died when I was eighteen," he said matter-of-factly, taking another sip of his coffee. "Car accident. That's how I got this…" Bucky pulled up his left sleeve to show Steve a shiny pale scar running up his left arm. "Drunk driver hit us head-on. I only survived because I was in the back seat, thankfully none of my sisters were in the car when it happened."

"That's awful," said Steve quietly. "So...it's just been you and your sisters since then?"

"Yup," Bucky pulled the sleeve down on his robe. "You need to grow up overnight when you lose both of your parents and have four younger siblings that need taking care of."

"If anyone's a good guy here, it's you," said Steve. "That's a lot of responsibility for anyone to take on, let alone someone so young. You were just a kid."

"We managed," he shrugged. He smiled at Steve and nudged him on the arm. "Sounds to me like you've _always_ been a good guy: you fixed my phone line…"

"Well, that was me just doing my job," Steve argued.

"...You gave me a ride home," Bucky continued, unperturbed. "You complimented my totally average coffee brewing skills…"

"That was a nice cup of coffee," Steve insisted. Steve's heart missed a beat when he felt Bucky's foot brush against his bare leg and his skin began to prickle with heat as Bucky leaned a little closer to him. He was looking at Steve like he was good enough to eat and Steve was more than happy to let him, anything to feel those pink, wet lips he'd thought so much about over the last few days pressed against his own.

"Admit it," said Bucky in a low voice. "You're nice."

Steve swallowed hard, unsure of what to say. A low burn of desire settled in the pit of his stomach and groin and he pressed his legs together in a vain attempt to stifle his growing erection. A small, distant voice in his head told him that he should stop this before things went too far, but he didn't want to.

"I have my moments," he managed to say quietly, moving incrementally towards Bucky as though magnetized. Bucky's steel grey eyes were dark now, half-lidded and full of want. Bucky's shaky breath tickled Steve's lips and he felt a thrill of excitement and nerves rush through him as he was about to cross the point of no return, but just as they were about to kiss, there was a loud knock at the door and both men froze. Bucky bowed his head and forced a smile before slowly getting to his feet.

"Perfect timing," he said sarcastically, padding to the front door. Steve let out a low sigh of relief and disappointment. What was it about this guy that made him want to throw caution to the wind? Steve's phone buzzed loudly on the table and a message from Natasha appeared on the screen: _You dodged a bullet there, Rogers._

Steve gritted his teeth and hastily typed a reply, _Stop spying on me!_

Natasha was quick to reply,_ In case you've forgotten, IT'S MY JOB to spy on people. You'd do well to remember yours._

Steve began typing an angry reply but stilled when he heard a familiar voice at the front door say, "Evening, sir! Miserable weather tonight, isn't it? Looks like you got caught in it, too! That's unfortunate. Lucky I packed my raincoat before I started my shift. Hey, is this your cat? Oh man, she's so cute! What's her name? It is a girl, isn't it? Oh! Sorry, that'll be twenty-five dollars, please."

Steve leaned back in his chair to get a look at the person Bucky was talking to. Just as he suspected, Pete the delivery boy was standing there, his usual goofy grin spread across his face as he clung to a large plastic bag full of Chinese food. Bucky handed him two notes and told him to keep the change, taking the bag from Pete's hands.

"Thanks, Mister!" he said brightly.

Pete's jovial expression quickly turned into one of shock when he spotted Steve in the kitchen just as Bucky closed the door on his confused face. Steve quickly sat forward again and rubbed his face roughly with his hands. There was no good way of explaining to the kid what was going on here, although it was probably better that he thought Steve was cheating on his wife with their neighbor than admitting that they were actually detectives on a stakeout. Maybe they could try that pizza place tomorrow instead? He didn't fancy facing Pete any time soon. Bucky walked back into the kitchen holding the bag of Chinese food aloft for Steve's perusal.

"Hope you're hungry."

"Starving."

Steve's phone buzzed again and another message appeared on the screen: _You ordered Chinese food? SERIOUSLY?_

While Bucky busied himself sorting out plates of food for the two of them, Steve replied to Natasha's text:_ I'll save you some dumplings._

Natasha: _Asshole._

A few seconds later, another message from Natasha appeared on the screen: _Did you order crab claws?_

Steve: _Yes, I'll save a couple for you._

Natasha: _Thank you._

Steve suppressed a smile and slipped the phone into his pocket. If all it took to appease his partner was some crab claws and dumplings, he wondered what mischief he could get away with if he bought her Kung Po Shrimp. Bucky placed a plateful of food in front of him.

"You like beer?" he asked.

"I'm driving," Steve reminded him.

"Oh yeah, sorry," Bucky lifted the brew pot from the coffee maker. "More coffee?"

"Please."

With a fresh coffee in hand, Steve raised his cup to Bucky. "Cheers."

"Prijatnogo appetita," he replied, taking a large gulp from his beer bottle before tucking into his dinner. Steve lifted a forkful of noodles to his mouth but paused as he felt something soft brush against his leg. Bucky smiled as his cat purred and rubbed its head against Steve's thigh. "She likes you."

"Does she like me, or is she begging me for a piece of my dinner?" Steve wondered.

"Maybe a bit of both," Bucky admitted. "Misha's a good judge of character though, you must be a good guy if she likes you."

Steve chewed on his food, wondering whether or not he should risk asking the question that had been on his mind since he had first read Bucky and Rumlow's files. Taking a sip of coffee to clear his mouth, he asked as casually as possible, "You seem awfully concerned about whether or not I'm a good guy. I take that you've had some bad experiences in the past?"

Bucky was quiet for a moment, moving his food around his plate before he replied, "I suppose you could say that...actually yeah, you could definitely say that."

Steve waited patiently for Bucky to continue. He had the feeling that he was trying to find the right words to explain the situation. Bucky sighed and said carefully, "There was this guy. He was charming and dangerous and exciting...and crazy. I guess I was crazier because I was with him for a while. But that's all over now."

"Where is he now?" asked Steve. Bucky shrugged.

"Dunno. Hopefully somewhere far away," he replied darkly.

Steve sensed that there was a lot more to the story than Bucky was letting on but he decided not to push him on the matter. What was clear was that he was no longer in contact with Rumlow, which put Steve's mind somewhat at ease—the likelihood that Rumlow would make an appearance here seemed fairly slim. After they had finished their meals and drinks, they chatted for a little longer. It surprised Steve how easy it was to talk to Bucky. Small talk was always something he had struggled with but there was something about Bucky that put him at ease. After another hour, he got another text from Natasha demanding her crab claws and Steve reluctantly made his excuses to leave. Bucky looked a little crestfallen when Steve said that he had to go, but he smiled at him and went to grab his clothes.

When Bucky came back with his clothes, dried and neatly folded in his hands, Steve got to his feet and took them from Bucky, their hands brushing against one another as he did so. Bucky looked up at Steve, that same look in his eye as he had earlier when they had nearly kissed.

"It was really nice seeing you again, Steve," he said softly.

"Yeah, you too."

Steve looked down at his work clothes and back up at Bucky. He knew that he ought to get dressed and go, he'd already overstepped the mark by even being here. But Steve—who'd always played by the rules and never stepped a toe out of line—for once in his life, wanted nothing more than to say fuck the rules and kiss this guy.

"You keep saying that I'm nice," he said, his voice a little hoarse. "Maybe I'm not as nice as you think."

Bucky smirked, "I hope not."

The burning desire that had been growing in the pit of Steve's stomach intensified and he finally allowed himself to give in to what he really wanted. Bucky's eyes widened with surprise as Steve dropped his neatly folded clothes onto the floor, cupped his cheeks and pressed their lips together in a tender kiss. Bucky quickly got over his initial surprise and groaned with relief into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Steve's neck to pull him closer. Steve had daydreamed for days what Bucky's lips would feel like, yet they were softer and sweeter than he could ever have imagined, perfect and pliant as they rolled against his own. When he felt the tentative brush of Bucky's tongue against his own, any concern he had about breaking the rules and the consequences of his actions evaporated. He wanted this. Bucky wanted this. That's all that mattered at that moment.

They stumbled blindly from the kitchen into the living room, neither man willing to break the kiss. Steve stopped abruptly when the back of his legs hit the sofa but Bucky pushed him into a sitting position and climbed onto his lap, lurching forward to capture Steve's lips in another searing kiss. Steve let his hands roam, desperate to touch every part of Bucky that he could reach; carding his fingers through his damp hair, which was silky to the touch, and down his neck and firm chest to the cord of Bucky's robes. He untied the loose knot and slipped the robes off of Bucky's broad shoulders, relishing the feeling of Bucky's hot, smooth skin beneath his fingertips.

Bucky broke their kiss and pulled off his robe, tossing it to the floor without a second thought. Steve's breath hitched as he finally had the opportunity to take in the delectable sight before him. Bucky's broad chest was rising and falling rapidly, his strong arms resting on Steve's chest. His muscular thighs were planted on either side of Steve's legs, with a smattering of dark, coarse hair covering his body. There weren't many things that Steve would describe as beautiful, but Bucky was one of those rare beauties, an Adonis among mortal men like himself. His eyes were tantalizingly drawn to the vee of Bucky's hips and the stiff cock rearing upwards, dripping precum from the tip. Steve unconsciously licked his lips at the sight and a mischievous smile spread across Bucky's face.

"You like what you see?" he purred.

Steve responded by grabbing Bucky by the waist and flipping him onto his back. Bucky looked up at him, wide-eyed and panting as Steve tore off his own robe and towel before lowering his body on top of Bucky's, deliberately brushing their cocks, slick with precum, against one another. Bucky moaned with approval and wrapped his right leg around Steve's thigh, pulling him closer and increasing the friction as their slick pricks slid against one another, hot and slippery in the perfect press of their bodies. Steve rolled his hips experimentally and was gratified to hear Bucky moan louder. He did it again and Bucky pressed back, slowly grinding their hips together, panting as they kissed messily, frantically.

Steve's heart was beating so hard that he felt lightheaded and all he could hear was the hammering of his own pulse in his ears and Bucky's shaky breaths and moans of pleasure. The way that their bodies, slick with sweat, seemed to meld together, rocking back and forth against one another, tumbling closer and closer to the point of no return, the way Bucky's face contorted with pleasure... Steve knew that he wouldn't be able to last much longer, but he was desperate to hold onto this perfect moment for as long as possible.

As their movements grew more frantic, Bucky clenched his eyes shut and fingers dug into Steve's asscheeks. His breath hitched and his mouth fell open as he came, his expression a mixture of surprise and ecstasy. Steve groaned at the slick heat spreading between their bodies and it didn't take long before he came too; stars exploded across his vision as though fireworks had gone off behind his eyes. Canting his head back, he came with a long, low groan, which was quickly smothered by Bucky's mouth as he grabbed Steve's head and pulled him into another passionate kiss.

Afterward, Steve and Bucky lay cuddled up on the sofa in each other's arms, both breathless and boneless. Bucky softly stroked Steve's hair and peppered the crown of his head with gentle kisses, which made Steve smile and snuggle closer into Bucky, causing the fine hairs on his chest to tickle Steve's nose. It had been so long since Steve had felt the press of another person's body against his own, he didn't realize how desperately he missed it—how much he needed it—until now. Of course, as the high from his post-orgasmic haze began to wane, he couldn't help but begin to worry about what Natasha would say or whether he'd even have a job come morning. He would have to make his excuses and leave soon, and he was quite sure all of the Kung Po Shrimp in the world wasn't going to save him from the shit storm that awaited him in the apartment across the road.


	8. Chapter 8

Steve traipsed up the damp stone steps of the apartment building where Natasha was waiting for him, squashed grocery bags and cartons of stone-cold Chinese food in hand. He cautiously pushed open the door to the apartment and poked his head inside, half-expecting some sort of projectile to get thrown at his head, but (perhaps, more ominously) the apartment was dead silent. Cautiously stepping inside, he pushed the door shut behind him with his foot and entered the living room, bracing himself for a torrent of abuse.

Natasha sat by the window, her arms crossed and an unreadable expression on her face. Steve felt like a small child called to the principal's office when he'd misbehaved. He struggled to keep his gaze fixed on her eyes, which seemed to bore through him like lasers.

"Explain," she demanded.

"Well…" he began, choosing his next words carefully. "I was at the store and I bumped into Bucky—Barnes," he quickly corrected himself, seeing Natasha's eyes flash. "He came up to me and started talking to me about Twinkies."

"Twinkies?" asked Natasha flatly.

"Well, not just about Twinkies," he mumbled. "Just small talk, ya know? What was I supposed to do? Pretend that I'd never seen him before?"

"Oh, I don't know, not have dinner and drinks with him?" she sneered.

"It wasn't like that," he argued.

"Oh? Then what _was_ it like?"

"His bike had a flat," he explained. "He saw me in the truck and flagged me down asking for a lift. It was starting to rain, I couldn't just leave him there on the side of the road, not with a killer on the loose." Natasha rolled her eyes but said nothing. "He invited me in for a coffee just to say thank you for helping him out."

"Oh, he said thank you, alright," she scoffed.

Steve gaped at her. "How do you know we—"

"Big fucking windows, Steve!" she cried, pointing out of the window. "The curtains were wide open! Believe me, I saw more of you than I ever thought I would, or wanted to."

Steve covered his face with his hands and groaned, "Oh my god…"

"Yeah, that's pretty close to how I reacted too," she said hotly. "Next time, close the goddamn curtains before you decide to flash your ass to innocent and unsuspecting passersby."

"I'm sure most people don't have high power telescopes pointed at their neighbors' windows!" he snapped. "And what do you mean by 'next time'?"

"What I mean is there better not be a next time, otherwise you and I are losing our badges!" she shouted. "We're supposed to be watching the house, not wining and dining people we have under surveillance!"

"I _was_ watching!" he argued. "From inside the house!"

A smirk threatened to tease the corner of Natasha's lips when he said that but she quickly smothered it with a frown. "You're a goddamn idiot, Rogers."

"I know. I'm sorry." Steve gave her an apologetic look and held up his paltry peace offering. "I brought you crab claws."

Natasha gave him a hard look for a few moments before snatching the plastic bag out of his hand. "It's gonna take more than crab claws to fix this mess."

"Well, isn't it a nice change of pace that it's me causing the trouble this time?" he joked. Natasha threw him a warning look and he immediately dropped his smile. He was better not pushing his luck with Natasha, especially when she was hungry. She rummaged through the bag and pulled out the pagoda boxes with her dinner and slammed them onto the table. Steve sat the box of donuts on the table for her before collapsing onto the lumpy sofa, exhausted. "Are you going to tell Fury about this?"

"Hell no!" she frowned, taking an aggressive bite out of one of the crab claws. "You might be a hot mess but you're my partner; we stick together, no matter what."

Steve felt a swell of appreciation and gratitude rise in his chest. "You're an angel, you know that?"

Natasha gave a dismissive grunt in response and shoved a dumpling into her mouth. She didn't take compliments that well, so Steve dished them out sparingly. Natasha wiped her hand with the back of her mouth before speaking again, "So...what's he like?"

Steve frowned. "Who, Bucky?"

"Who else?" she said irritably. "I want to know about this guy who's made my partner completely lose his mind. What's he like? Is he everything that you imagined and then some?"

Steve couldn't help the goofy smile that spread across his face. "He's very sweet."

"Yeah?" she said interestedly. "What else?"

Steve shrugged. "We've got a lot in common: we both love bikes, he likes going to art galleries—The Met is his favorite—he's a Dodgers fan, he loves Italian food…"

"I thought Chinese was your favorite?" she pouted.

"Chinese food is great, but it's not my favorite," he admitted. Steve sighed and glanced dreamily out of the window. "He's funny and smart. He makes a great cup of coffee. And he's a great kisser."

Natasha's expression softened. "Wow. He sounds perfect."

"He does, doesn't he?" Steve smiled. "He's something, alright. Something really special."

Natasha sighed and bowed her head in silent contemplation for a few moments before saying quietly, "Look, I'm glad that you found someone that has given you a bit of happiness—believe me, it's long overdue—but you and I both know that this relationship can't continue."

"Well, maybe not now but after the case has closed, things will be different," Steve argued. "Bucky won't be under surveillance anymore and I'll have moved onto a different case."

"It's not that simple," Natasha argued. Steve frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"Your relationship is based on a lie," she reminded him evenly. "Let's say that Rumlow was caught tonight and the case wrapped up tomorrow, what then? At some point, you're gonna have to explain to Barnes that you're actually a detective and not a goddamn telephone repairman. How do you think he's going to react when he finds out you've been lying to him from the moment you met him?"

"I…" Steve stammered.

He was about to say that he hadn't thought of that, but in truth, the thought had crossed his mind more than once. He had thought about how relationships were messy and complicated and always ended in heartache, but in the moments before Bucky had kissed him, he hadn't cared about any of that; the pain was worth the pleasure. But Steve had realized too late that it wasn't just him who was at risk of getting hurt. He thought about what Bucky would say when he realized what Steve had done, pictured the hurt and shocked expression on his face, and guilt struck him like a punch in the gut. His face crumpled and he hung his head in shame.

"Shit," he choked. "I've really fucked up, haven't I?"

"Big time," she agreed solemnly. "How are you going to fix this?"

"I can't," he said mournfully. "I think...maybe it would be best if I just didn't see him again."

"I think that's the best for everyone concerned," Natasha nodded. "I'm really sorry about this, Steve. I guess some things just aren't meant to be."

"I should at least call him and explain," he said, patting down his pants for his phone. "I can't just ghost him."

"What are you going to say?"

"That I've got some personal issues that make having a relationship impossible right now, I suppose," he shrugged glumly.

"The old 'it's not you, it's me' excuse," said Natasha, wiping her greasy hands on her jeans and reaching for the large box of Krispy Kremes. "That always goes down well."

"What else am I supposed to say?" Steve snapped, checking his coat pockets for the phone but he still couldn't find it. Where the hell did he put it?

"I wasn't criticizing," she argued. "I actually think it's the best thing to say. He'll think that you're such an asshole he'll be glad to be rid of you."

"Thanks very much," he muttered. He checked down the sides of the sofa for his phone but it wasn't there either. "Nat, can you call my phone? I can't find it."

"Honestly, if your head wasn't screwed on you'd lose that too," Natasha tore off the lid to the box of Krispy Kremes and stared at the contents with a horrified expression. "What the hell happened to my donuts?"

Steve walked over to take a look at what the problem was and grimaced—the dozen glazed confections now resembled pancakes more than donuts, the cream and raspberry jelly smeared across the sides and bottom of the box.

"Ah. Bucky might have sat on the box—accidentally, of course."

Natasha pursed her lips in displeasure and tossed the box onto the table. "Unbelievable…"

She picked up her phone and dialed Steve's number and they listened carefully for the buzzing sound to reveal where his phone was hiding, but as Steve's phone rang out, they couldn't hear anything.

"Try again," asked Steve.

Natasha rang the number again and asked, "You didn't leave it in the truck, did you?"

Steve shook his head. "I don't think so, I...oh shit."

"What?"

Steve clenched his eyes shut and admitted, "I um...I might have left it in Bucky's apartment."

_"What?"_

"I was wearing his robe and...oh god, I put the phone in my pocket and I just forgot about it," he finished lamely. Natasha's face went as scarlet as her hair and she pointed out of the window towards Bucky's apartment.

"Well, you better march back over there right now and get it!"

"What if he's asleep already?"

"Then wake him up!"

Steve grabbed the binoculars sitting on the window ledge and looked across to Bucky's apartment. Bucky had changed into his grey sweatpants and was clearing up the mess he and Steve had made in the living room, snatching the discarded towels and robes from the floor. Steve watched with mounting horror as Bucky picked up the robe Steve had been wearing and his mobile fell out of the pocket and clattered to the floor. Bucky paused and picked it up off the floor, turning it over in his hand.

"Oh shit, he's found my phone," said Steve, unable to disguise the panic in his voice.

"Then march over there and get it!" said Natasha angrily. "If he checks the messages on your phone and sees the conversations we've been having about the case, the jig is up!"

"Right. Yeah, of course," Steve hurriedly looked for the keys for the truck which, he realized after a minute's frantic searching, were still in his coat pocket. He hurried to the front door, skidding to an abrupt halt when, for the first time since they had taken up residence in the dingy apartment, the telephone began to ring.

"Incoming call for Barnes," said Natasha calmly, switching from irritated partner to professional detective in a heartbeat. Steve hurried back to kneel by Natasha's side as she sat at the small laptop with a notebook at the ready. The phone rang a couple more times before Bucky finally picked it up. As the call connected, a mobile number appeared on the laptop screen and Natasha hurriedly scribbled it down.

"Hello?"

Bucky's voice came out of the speakers of the recording equipment, low and gravelly. He sounded tired, as if he'd just been woken up from a nap. Steve grabbed the binoculars again and saw that Bucky was now standing in the kitchen with a cordless telephone, Steve's mobile still in his hand.

"Bucky?" came a young female voice, shaking badly.

"Becca?" said Bucky. "Vy v poryadke?"

Steve didn't know what Bucky was saying, but his voice was laced with concern. Natasha listened intently to the conversation, her pen hovering over the notebook.

The young woman let out a strangled sob, "PomogIte, pozhalusta."

"What are they saying?" Steve couldn't help but ask. Natasha shooshed him and listened to Bucky and the woman talk rapidly to one another in Russian for a few moments before replying, "Her name's Becca. She's asking Barnes if he can come over to her place right away."

"Becca…" said Steve slowly. "That'll be his sister."

"She says that she needs his help," Natasha continued. "She sounds really distressed, it's difficult to make out everything that she's saying but Barnes is trying to calm her down."

Steve watched as Bucky left his mobile on the kitchen table and hurried upstairs to his bedroom, pulling on a t-shirt and boots as he kept talking on the telephone to his sister. A terrible thought struck Steve then, and he looked over to Natasha.

"You don't think it's Rumlow, do you? That he's at Becca's apartment?"

"I don't think so," said Natasha slowly. After a few tense seconds, the tension in her shoulders eased and she rolled her eyes. "It's not Rumlow."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive," said Natasha, leaning back in her chair. "Becca's boyfriend has broken up with her and she's distraught over it. She wants Barnes to come around and console her."

"Oh."

"Spasiba, spasiba…" said Becca, sounding a little calmer now.

"Ne za chta", Bucky replied. "Da svinda'ja."

Bucky hung up the phone and the recording equipment automatically went on standby again. Steve put the binoculars back onto the window ledge and turned to leave.

"Okay, I'll head over now before he leaves and—"

"Too late," Natasha cut in, nodding to the window.

Steve turned and looked out to the street below to see Bucky pulling on his coat as he marched down the steep steps of his apartment to the sidewalk before turning left in the direction of the subway. Meanwhile, Steve's phone was sitting tantalizingly on the kitchen table. Technically it was within reach, but it might as well have been a million miles away.

"Shit," Steve hissed. "What are we going to do now?"

_"We?"_ Natasha laughed. _"You_ can go over there and get your phone back while the coast is clear. I doubt Barnes will be back anytime soon."

"I can't just take the phone out of his apartment," Steve argued.

"Oh, don't suddenly act like you have the moral high ground!" Natasha raged. "An hour ago you had no qualms about screwing Barnes, breaking into his house shouldn't be an issue!"

"He's already seen the phone, Nat!" he snarled. "It's gonna look awfully strange if someone breaks into his apartment and the only thing they steal is my phone!"

"Argh! God, you're such an idiot!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands up into the air.

"I know!" he cried. "Don't remind me."

Natasha let out a weary sigh, closed her eyes, and massaged her temples. "Okay, if we're lucky, Barnes will be back within the hour and you can go pick up your phone. If he doesn't, we'll just have wait until tomorrow night."

"And if he checks my messages?"

Natasha gave him a serious look. "Then you and I will be spending the rest of our days working as security guards at the Stark Plaza Shopping Center."

Steve slumped into the sofa with his head in his hands. He tried to think of a way out of this hell of his own making but came up empty. He ought to just accept the truth of the situation—he was well and truly fucked.


	9. Chapter 9

When Natasha had first found out that she and Steve were going to be partners, she had been more than a little apprehensive. Not that she'd let her nerves show, of course, particularly in a male-dominated environment like the New York Police Department. She had always kept her cards close to her chest when it came to revealing her emotions to anyone. Still, Detective Steve Rogers was an intimidating figure; he'd already garnered himself a reputation in the precinct as having a dogmatic approach to police work, as being extremely capable and hardworking, and as someone who always followed the law to the letter.

Natasha, meanwhile, was Steve's complete opposite in many respects; the term 'loose cannon' had been thrown about on occasion, unfairly so in her opinion. While her approach to police work might have been a little unconventional—perhaps a little more _physical_ than Steve's—and sure, she might have needed coaxing to get the paperwork done more than most, but Natasha knew that she was a good cop. So what if she had gotten into a few scuffles over the years—what police officer worth their salt hadn't? She was never the one to start the fight, but she was always the one to finish them.

So, after her previous partner retired from the force and Fury called her into his office to introduce her to Steve, she was concerned that their different approaches to police work would cause some friction between them. Quite the contrary, they got on better than she ever could have hoped for. Yes, they were different, but their differences complemented one another. If anything, they seemed to temper the worst impulses in one another: Steve coaxed Natasha to do her paperwork more regularly (usually through bribery in the form of food) and Natasha taught Steve to loosen up and try not to take everything so seriously.

Evidently, she had been too successful in that department.

Steve's behavior in recent days irritated and worried her in equal measures. She didn't appreciate being left in a cold, damp apartment while Steve got to live it up in Bucky's (with Chinese food, too, the nerve of him). Neither did she like having to keep secrets from Clint. Although they had only had fleeting moments in each other's company in recent weeks, Clint knew that she was hiding something from him and had quizzed her on it, but she had kept her mouth shut. Not because she didn't want to tell him what was going on, but she thought there ought to be some plausible deniability to protect him and Sam in case the shit did hit the fan, which inevitably, these things always did.

Despite her annoyance at Steve, she had no intention of telling anyone about his recent indiscretions. She valued him too much as a partner and a friend to risk losing him, even if he was being a complete idiot. But Natasha was so used to being the one getting into trouble, now that the shoe was on the other foot, she didn't know what the hell she should do. She had tried to imagine what Steve (normal Steve, not this lovesick puppy whose head was in the clouds) would do: he would tell Natasha that she was crazy and putting their careers in jeopardy...but he would also stick by her side. He always had done; through thick and thin, he'd always had her back. Well, there was no question that she would have his back on this, no matter what happened. But although she had his back, that didn't mean that she couldn't be royally pissed off with him.

And while Natasha had no intention of telling anyone about what Steve had been up to, she had every intention of sizing up James Buchanan Barnes for herself.

Natasha blessed the heavy rain that had started earlier that morning, it made it much easier for her to hide her face underneath a large hood as she entered Ramonda's Hair Salon on West Market Street. She had spotted the surveillance van sitting across the road from the salon a mile off, but she wasn't too concerned about the officers from Second Precinct paying her any attention—they were on the lookout for two tall, dark-haired males, not a petite redhead.

As Natasha pushed open the front door to the salon, she was hit with a wall of noise: pop music blared over the blast of high-powered hairdryers and (mostly) women, customers and stylists, all chatting and laughing amongst themselves. Natasha peeled off her drenched coat and approached the small reception counter where a young woman with black and electric blue braids sat chatting to another girl with long brown hair. Both of them were looking at their phones when Natasha approached and she had to clear her throat to get their attention.

"Hi there," she smiled and the girl with the braids quickly hid her phone under the counter. She flashed Natasha a brilliant smile and pulled the diary towards her.

"Hey, welcome to Ramonda's! I'm Shuri, what can I do for you today?"

"I have an appointment at four with Bucky," said Natasha, glancing at the tall brunette next to her whose gaze was still fixed on her phone. She had piercing grey eyes and cupid bow lips. Natasha thought that she looked an awful lot like—

"Bucky's just finishing up with another client, he won't be too long," Shuri explained, scribbling a note in the diary before rising to her feet and showing Natasha over to the waiting area. "Here, let me take your coat. Would you like a coffee while you wait?"

"Yeah, that'd be great." Natasha took a seat on the plush white sofa that Shuri had led her to. "Two sugars, no milk. Thanks."

"Coming right up!" said Shuri brightly before marching away with Natasha's coat. Natasha sent Clint a quick text telling him that she might end up running late for her shift tonight but didn't bother to mention what salon she was at. Plausible deniability.

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

Natasha stilled as she instantly recognized that voice. It was the same one that she had listened to the previous evening when Bucky had received a desperate phone call from his sister, Becca. Natasha slipped her phone into her jeans pocket and turned to find the brunette girl from the counter sitting next to her. She was still holding her mobile in her hand but her attention was entirely focused on Natasha.

"Sorry to bother you, but you look really familiar," said Becca slowly. "Are you like an influencer or something?"

Natasha snorted, "Definitely not! I'm a nobody. Sorry, I don't think we've met before."

"Are you sure?" she pressed, her eyes narrowing. "I swear that I know you from somewhere…"

Natasha shrugged. "New York's a big city with a lotta people in it. It's possible we've crossed paths before and I just don't remember."

Becca scrutinized Natasha for a moment longer before shrugging and turning back to her phone. Natasha kept her expression impassive but her heart was pounding in her chest. Christ, where the hell did this girl recognize her from? Had she spotted Natasha around Bucky's apartment? No, she couldn't have. In the weeks since they had been staking out Bucky's apartment, Becca hadn't been to visit him. It was just a coincidence.

"Bucky's doing your hair, right?" asked Becca.

"Yeah, is he any good?" asked Natasha.

"He's the best," she declared unabashedly.

"Really?" said Natasha interestedly. "Is that who does your hair?"

"Yup," she replied a little smugly. "Only I get a family discount."

"Ah, he's your brother? That's handy."

"Tell me about it! It saves me so much money. And I can just come in here whenever I like, he always makes the time to see me."

"You still need to make an appointment like everyone else," said Bucky, walking towards them. He smiled at Natasha and shook her hand. "Hey, I'm Bucky. I see you've already met my sister, Becca, I hope she wasn't bothering you too much."

Becca rolled her eyes. "I was singing your praises, if you must know!"

"Well, that's alright then," Bucky turned back to Natasha. "Would you like to follow me and we can talk about what you'd like to get done today?"

It had been a long time since Natasha had last visited a salon. Working full-time as a detective didn't allow her the luxury of time to indulge in something as extravagant as a haircut. She usually just tied her auburn hair up in a bun or braided it, more out of practicality than style. That said, it was rather nice having a hot cup of coffee in hand and a handsome man playing with her hair. She made a mental note to do this on a more regular basis.

"So, what are we doing today?" asked Bucky, running his fingers through her hair.

"I'm bored just being a redhead," she sighed. "Let's jazz things up with a new color, shall we?"

Bucky's eyes lit up and he grabbed the book with the colors that they had available, "Alright! Did you have a particular color in mind?"

"I was thinking blonde."

Bucky flipped through the book and pointed out a couple of shades that he thought would suit Natasha's skin tone before they finally settled on sunflower blonde, whatever the hell that meant. In truth, Natasha didn't care what color her hair was. She had deliberately chosen a procedure that would take the most amount of time, which now gave her approximately two hours to talk to this guy and find out what all of the fuss was about.

As Bucky mixed the colors and developers together, he hummed along to the music on the radio. When a new song started to play, his breath hitched and he called over to a woman with white dreadlocks and large, gold hoop earrings who was talking to another stylist in the far corner of the room.

"Ramonda!" he cried. "Turn the radio up, I love this song!"

Ramonda quirked a high arched eyebrow at him. _"This_ song? What boy's captured your heart?"

"Nobody in particular," he chuckled, but Ramonda smiled knowingly and turned up the music for him. Bucky swayed his hips from side to side as he continued to prep the hair dyes, singing under his breath, "His hair is Harlow gold, his lips are sweet surprise. His hands are never cold, he's got Bette Davis eyes…"

Natasha suppressed a smirk. Clearly, Steve wasn't the only one that was smitten. Having only seen Bucky from a distance before, she relished the opportunity to get a better look at this guy. Up close, she could understand why Steve lost his head around Bucky; with his long brown hair, full lips and silver-grey eyes, he was quite striking to look at.

"Someone on your mind?" she asked lightly.

"No," said Bucky, then he smiled and added, "Well...maybe. We've only just met."

"Really?" she said interestedly. "Tell me more. Where did you meet?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said, applying the first foil to Natasha's hair. "It sounds like some meet-cute you read in a cheesy romance novel."

"Try me."

Bucky chuckled at the memory. "A couple days back, I was pulling up to my apartment when I see this guy stuck up a ladder with a dog waiting for him on the sidewalk. It looked like it was ready to chase him around the block, but I turned up just in time to rescue him."

"No way!" Natasha gasped.

"Seriously! The poor guy, he'd been stuck up there for God only knows how long, so I invited him inside for a cup of coffee. You know, just to heat him up…"

"Don't tell me he's going on about his boyfriend again!" Becca cried, hopping into the empty styling chair next to Natasha. Bucky screwed his face up and his cheeks went red.

"I was not!" he protested. "And he's not my boyfriend—yet."

"If you say so," she smirked.

"Are you guys talking about Bucky's new boyfriend?" asked Shuri keenly, appearing over Bucky's shoulder.

"He's not my boyfriend," he repeated.

"It's not fair," Becca continued, ignoring her brother's protests. "I get dumped and Bucky gets a super-hot boyfriend. Well, you _say_ he's hot, we haven't even seen a picture of him yet."

"Oh, he's hot," Bucky assured them. "A perfect ten. _And_ he's sweet as hell. Sweet in that awkward, gentlemanly kind of way."

"Have you got his number yet?" asked Shuri.

"No, but he did leave his phone at mine last night."

Shuri and Becca 'oohed' and Natasha struggled to keep the smiled fixed across her face.

"Do you think he left it there on purpose?" she asked.

"I dunno...maybe," Bucky shrugged, adding another foil to Natasha's hair. "I mean, it would be the perfect excuse for him to come back to see me, wouldn't it?"

Natasha fleetingly wondered if Steve really had left the phone on purpose but was quick to dismiss the idea. It was pretty unlikely that Steve would mastermind such a cunning plan, it was far more likely that her partner was a total klutz and had left his mobile by accident.

"Not that it was necessary," Bucky continued. "If he'd asked for my number I'd have given it to him."

"Ooh, I hope he turns up again tonight!" said Shuri excitedly. "If he does you'll need to tell us what happened tomorrow."

"Shuri!" Shuri squeaked and her back straightened as Ramonda barked out her name. She pointed accusingly at the young girl with a long, painted fingernail. "This isn't a social club, get back to work!"

"Yes mama," she replied hurriedly, shooting Becca and Bucky an apologetic look and mouthing 'try and get a photo of him for us' before scurrying back to the reception desk.

"I just think the whole thing is weird," said Becca, spinning in her chair. "This perfect guy just happens to appear on your doorstep from nowhere. What are the chances of that ever happening?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "There's nothing weird about it! It was just a lucky coincidence that we kept bumping into each other. I never thought I'd be thankful for a flat tire, but you know what they say—when one door closes, another one opens."

"Who the hell is a telephone repairman in this day and age?" cried Becca. "Most people don't even have a home telephone these days!"

"I do!" said Bucky defensively. It was Becca's turn to roll her eyes.

"Yeah but you're like a total technophobe, Buck," she teased. "I made you that Facebook profile and you've never used it."

"I don't like those things," he said darkly. "They're a massive invasion of your privacy."

"Everyone uses it, Buck! Everyone except you. Christ, you don't even have a mobile."

"I do," he argued and Natasha's ears pricked up at that. Becca, however, didn't look convinced.

"Really? Then how come I've never seen you use it?"

"Because I only keep it for emergencies," he explained, applying the final foils to Natasha's hair. "And if you want to reach me, you only need to call the house."

Becca groaned in frustration and called Bucky hopeless before jumping to her feet and returning to the reception desk to talk to Shuri. Bucky shook his head at his sister and turned to face Natasha's reflection in the mirror.

"Young people these days, eh?" he joked.

"It is unusual not to use a mobile these days," Natasha pointed out.

"Maybe I'm just old fashioned," he shrugged. Natasha glanced in the mirror at Becca who was pointing at something on her phone and showing it to Shuri.

"Does your sister work here too?"

"Nah, she's just hanging out today." He lowered his voice and admitted, "Her boyfriend broke up with her last night. He's moving all of his stuff out of their apartment today."

"Ahh, right."

"Rather than spending the day at my place on her own, I invited her to hang out here instead," he explained. "Plus she's already friends with Shuri—her mom runs the salon—I thought that she could use the company. Ramonda doesn't mind so long as she doesn't get in the way."

Natasha smiled warmly at Bucky. "She's lucky to have such a sweet and caring big brother."

"I'm only sweet and caring when she doesn't get on my nerves," he joked. "Do you want another coffee while we wait for the dye to process?"

Natasha handed him her empty cup. "Yeah, that'd be great."

A few minutes later, Bucky was sitting in the vacant styling chair next to Natasha with his own cup of coffee in hand, answering all of her questions about his new beau. It was interesting how forthcoming people were with personal information when they were at a salon, and she thought that perhaps they should conduct more police interviews here in future.

"So this boyfriend of yours," she continued. "Is it a casual thing or do you think it could be something more serious?"

Bucky looked over his shoulder to make sure that his sister wasn't listening before turning back to Natasha and saying in a low voice, "Between you and me...I think that he could be 'the one'."

Natasha choked on her coffee and roughly wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, "Really?"

"I know that sounds crazy because I've just met the guy, but there's something different about him that I just can't quite put my finger on." Bucky sighed dreamily and his smile broadened. "I'm not a big believer in fate and shit, but the second I laid eyes on him, it was like lightning struck. At first, I thought it was just because I was attracted to him, but then we started talking and even though we'd only just met, it felt like I'd known him all of my life. Have you ever felt that way about anyone before?"

Natasha thought of Clint and she nodded. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."

"He's so easy to talk to and we have so much in common," Bucky continued. "How many gorgeous guys out there love bikes _and_ art galleries?"

"He sounds perfect," Natasha mumbled.

"Nobody's perfect," Bucky argued, taking a sip of his coffee. "But he's about as close to perfect as I've ever seen. Oh, listen to me rambling on and on about myself and I haven't even asked about you!"

"Oh, it's no problem, I prefer to listen," she assured him but Bucky shook his head.

"There are two things I take very seriously in this job—my styling skills, and my role as an unofficial therapist."

"An unofficial therapist?" she asked flatly.

"Hell yeah! Why do you think most people come to a salon?"

"I assumed it was to get their hair done."

"A common misconception," Bucky smiled. "We're here to listen to each other's problems, especially when it's about our love lives."

"I don't have a boyfriend," she lied and Bucky grinned.

"Ah, so you haven't made it official yet?"

Natasha frowned, "How do you know if I'm seeing anyone?"

"You've got that look in your eye. I can see it a mile off."

"What look?"

"The look of love," he teased, winking at her. Natasha snorted and crossed her arms.

"I am not in love with him."

"So, I was right, there _is_ someone!" said Bucky triumphantly. "Is it still too early in the relationship for either of you to admit your feelings to one another?"

"No!" said Natasha defensively. "No. I mean, yes, we've been seeing each other for a while now but I'm a very private person by nature and this is a very private thing."

"Do you two work together?" he asked. Natasha hesitated a moment before nodding. "Well, I can understand why you wouldn't want other people to know unless the relationship was serious."

"Right. Exactly," Natasha agreed. "He respects how I feel about it."

"What are his feelings on it?" asked Bucky curiously.

Natasha opened her mouth to answer then quickly closed it again. She realized then that she didn't actually know how Clint felt about keeping their relationship secret since she had never bothered to ask him.

"I suppose I just assumed because he hadn't said anything about it that it wasn't an issue," she said quietly.

Bucky took a sip from his cup before speaking again. "Well, take it from me—guys are loath to talk about their feelings. We're taught to bottle them up 'cause it's unmanly but that's bullshit. If I were you, I'd talk to him about it because, I assure you, he'll have a lotta feelings on the matter. Still waters run deep and whatnot."

Natasha cocked an eyebrow at him. "You're fond of your proverbs, aren't you?"

"Am I wrong?" he challenged.

Natasha sighed and swirled the contents of her cup. "No but it does require that I open up and talk about _my_ feelings."

"You're an adult, aren't you?"

"I should act like one," she nodded.

"I hope that I haven't insulted you," Bucky said gently, but Natasha shook her head.

"Nah, that's just what I needed to hear," she turned to Bucky and scrutinized him closely. "You know, you'd make a pretty good cop."

Bucky laughed. "You think so?"

"Yeah, I do. You make people feel at ease and can get people to talk. Christ, you got _me_ talking and that's no small feat. That's a real skill you've got there."

"All part and parcel of being a hairdresser," he winked.

Natasha laughed and drained the coffee from her cup. Okay, she could totally see why Steve had lost his head around this guy; he was sweet, funny, charming, and with that disarming smile of his, it was no surprise that Steve was a goner the moment he'd laid eyes on him. Which just made the fact that Steve had to break things off with him that much worse.

"Oh. My. God!"

Bucky and Natasha turned towards Shuri and Becca, who were watching something on Becca's phone. Shuri laughed and told Becca to play the video again but Becca hurried over to them and brandished her phone in Natasha's face.

"I _knew_ I recognized you from somewhere!" she cried.

Natasha felt her insides freeze as the video of her roundhouse-kicking the bad Santa played on screen. "Oh. That…"

"You're, like, crazy famous!" Becca squealed as Shuri hopped up and down excitedly beside her.

"What is it?" asked Bucky interestedly.

"Natasha's in a video that went viral," Shuri explained. "She basically broke the internet."

"Like she broke Santa's arm," Becca quipped and both girls giggled. "Can we get a selfie with you? Our friends would freak out!"

"No!" Natasha snapped, then seeing the crestfallen expressions on the girls' faces, she quickly added, "I mean, not with my hair still in foils. We'll take a picture later."

Becca immediately perked up. "Of course! I'm going to Snapchat everyone letting them know I've met a celebrity!"

"What video?" asked Bucky.

"Oh my god, you really are a dinosaur," she bemoaned, thrusting her phone into her brother's hands before turning back to Natasha. "So what happened to that guy? Did you need to break his other arm or did he behave himself after that?"

"We had to take him to the hospital to get patched up, but no, he kept his hands to himself after that."

"The way you sent him flying through the air with that kick, you were like Wonder Woman or something," said Shuri admiringly.

"Wonder Woman?" Becca scoffed. "Hell no, more like Captain Marvel! She was like, pow! Your ass is mine, bucko! Seriously, the video is hilarious. What do you think, Buck? Bucky, are you alright?"

Bucky didn't immediately answer. He was staring at the phone screen with a mixture of shock and horror. He looked up at Natasha and anger flashed across his face and she felt a sudden stab of panic.

"I need to go," he mumbled and without another word he turned on his heel and marched towards the salon exit.

"Bucky, where are you going?" Becca cried after him. "Hey! You still have my phone!"

Bucky didn't seem to hear her because he kept walking, hurrying out of the salon and turning left down the busy sidewalk. Becca and Shuri exchanged worried looks.

"What was _that_ all about?" Shuri wondered.

Natasha suddenly realized what had happened. She hurriedly pulled her phone out of her pocket and searched for the video of her at the Stark Plaza Shopping Center. She watched it and a few seconds later, her worst fears were confirmed.

"Shit," she snarled, stuffing her phone back into her pocket and leaping to her feet. "Shitshitshit!"

"Hey!" Shuri cried after Natasha as she sprinted for the exit. "You're not finished yet! And you haven't paid either!"

Natasha skidded to a halt, pulled a fistful of notes out of her pocket and slammed them on the counter before running out of the salon. Shuri glanced at the money and ran after Natasha out of the door, crying, "You've left too much!"

"Keep it!" she yelled over her shoulder, sprinting down the street in a desperate attempt to catch up with Bucky. After running flat-out for a couple of blocks, Natasha stopped running and turned on the spot, desperately searching for the tall brunette, but he had disappeared from sight.

"Fuck!" she yelled, startling a passerby.

She pulled out her phone to call Steve then cursed again as she remembered that his phone was still in Bucky's house. Natasha checked her watch: it was five-thirty already. Running to her truck, she hopped into the driver's seat and pulled out from the curb causing several other drivers to honk their horns angrily at her. Natasha paid them no mind and pushed her foot down on the accelerator. If she could get to Steve's apartment before he left for work, she could warn him that everything was about to go to hell in a handbasket.


	10. Chapter 10

Steve had been a ball of nerves all day. So worried about Bucky discovering the truth, he hadn't been able to catch a wink of sleep and couldn't concentrate on anything. He kept thinking about what would happen if Bucky looked through the contents of his phone and discovered what they had been doing, and the thought made him feel nauseous. Since he hadn't received an angry summons from Fury to the precinct, he assumed Bucky hadn't looked through his phone (not yet, anyway) but this did little to abate his nerves. Even going for an extra-long run had done little to help him relax. Rather than sit at home worrying, he decided just to head to work early. When he entered the apartment, Sam was sitting on the sofa with a pizza box on his lap while Clint was at the window with his new labrador companion lying dutifully at his feet.

"You're early," Sam mumbled through a mouthful of pizza. He raised the box to Steve, wordlessly offering him a slice, but Steve declined.

"I had nothing better to do today, so I thought I'd just head over here and see how you guys are doing."

"Well, the cat's been sitting on the porch of Barnes's apartment most of the day," said Clint, sitting back from the telescope.

"Anything else?" asked Steve.

"Nope! That's the most exciting thing to have happened today," said Clint brightly. "Pass a slice over here, Sam."

Sam took a large slice of pizza and tossed it across the room. Clint and Steve watched as it arched high into the air and landed on the dusty floorboards with a loud splat. Clint cried out in anger while the dog quickly scrambled to his feet, wagging its tail happily as it ate the pizza from the floor.

"I didn't mean for you to throw it at me!" Clint fumed.

"I know but it was funny," Sam laughed.

Clint sighed and shook his head in disappointment. "Well, at least Lucky's enjoying it."

"Lucky?" asked Steve.

"I thought the name was fitting since he was one lucky sonofabitch that I found him when I did!" said Clint, reaching out his hand for Lucky to sniff. "He wouldn't have lasted much longer out there, not now that the temperature's dropped."

Lucky licked Clint's fingers and curled up in a ball at his master's feet again, looking content.

"Snow's been forecast for tonight," Sam chipped in, checking his phone. "Just when I thought this job couldn't get any worse."

"Hey guys, Barnes is home early," Clint informed them suddenly.

Steve and Sam hurried over to the window, closely followed by Lucky, who balanced his front paws on the windowsill to look out just in time to see Bucky hurry up the steps to his apartment and slam the door shut behind him. Sam frowned and checked his watch.

"It's only ten to six. He's not due to finish work for at least another hour."

Seeing his chance to talk to Bucky away from prying eyes, Steve turned to Sam and Clint. "Why don't you guys head home early today? I'll take it from here."

"Are you sure?" asked Sam. "Nat's not here yet."

"Yeah, she's running late today," Clint explained. "Hairdresser's appointment, if you would believe it."

"I'm sure she won't be much longer," Steve argued. "Go on, you guys have been here all day. You must be exhausted."

"Well, I don't need telling twice!" Clint agreed cheerfully. Latching Lucky's lead onto his new collar, he thanked Steve and practically ran from the apartment as though Steve might have a change of heart. Sam lingered, however, his brow furrowed.

"Are you alright, man?" he asked. "You seem a bit...off."

"I'm fine," Steve lied. "I'm just tired. I didn't get much sleep last night."

Sam still looked worried. "You know that you can talk to me if something's bothering you."

"I know." Steve smiled warmly at Sam. "And I really appreciate that. Thank you."

"If you're sure…" said Sam uncertainly.

Steve watched out of the kitchen window as Sam's car pulled away before he hurried out of the apartment building and across the road to speak to Bucky. He felt sick with dread walking up the steep steps to Bucky's front door. Even if he hadn't looked at the contents of the phone, Steve was going to have to do the right thing and break things off with Bucky anyway. As much as he didn't want to do that, Natasha was right—it was the best thing to do for all concerned. Steve knocked lightly on the front door and waited. Funny how doing the right thing made him feel so miserable.

A few moments passed and the front door swung open. Steve opened his mouth to speak but paused when he caught sight of Bucky; his eyes were red and puffy as though he had been crying and he didn't look at all happy to see Steve.

"Steve," he greeted him coolly. "Fancy seeing you here."

Steve's mind began to race, the words _he knows he knows he knows_ rushing through his head over and over again so loudly and erratically that he was struggling to think straight.

"Hi," Steve greeted him cautiously. "Um, are you alright?"

"I'm fine," said Bucky, his voice cracking slightly. "Never been better."

"Oh. Okay…" Bucky looked expectantly at Steve and he realized that he was standing at this guy's doorstep with no explanation as to why he was there. "Right. Look, I'm sorry to bother you like this but I think I left my phone here last night."

"Yeah, you did," Bucky pulled Steve's phone out of his back pocket and held it out to Steve, but when Steve tried to take it, he snatched it out of reach. "You know, my sister showed me a really funny video today."

Steve frowned with confusion. Where was this conversation going?

"A video?" he asked.

Bucky nodded and pulled another phone from his pocket and held it up to Steve. "I don't know if you've seen it before, but imagine my surprise when a familiar face appeared on screen."

Steve felt his heart sink as he instantly recognized the video Bucky was talking about. He watched the grainy footage of Natasha kicking Brice in the chest and everyone gasped as he flew through the air into the Christmas tree, knocking it to the ground and crushing Santa's grotto in the process. Steve grimaced as he heard his own voice and a moment later he appeared on screen, asking Natasha what the hell had happened. Steve looked up at Bucky, whose expression had turned stony.

"I can explain…" he began, before he was cut off by the roar of an approaching vehicle. Steve and Bucky turned to see what the commotion was and a moment later, Natasha's truck screeched to a halt outside of Bucky's house. She scrambled out of the car and up the steep steps to Bucky's door, her hair entirely covered in silver tin foil. As she finally reached the top of the staircase she bent over double and leaned against the doorframe, struggling to catch her breath.

"I'm sorry, Steve," she wheezed. "I fucked up."

"I want to know what the fuck is going on," said Bucky, his voice shaking with anger.

Steve looked between his partner and Bucky, unsure of what to say. Natasha straightened and wiped the sweat from her brow. "I think it would be better to discuss this inside."

She took a step towards Bucky but paused as he closed the door a little. "I don't think so. I don't even know who you people are." A look of panic suddenly flashed across his face then. "You're friends with Brock, aren't you? He sent you here to spy on me…"

"No!" said Steve quickly. "No, he didn't send us to spy on you. We're not here to hurt you, Bucky, we're here to protect you." Bucky frowned in confusion but he didn't close the door in their faces, so Steve slowly pulled his police badge from his back pocket and handed it over to him. "We're detectives with the NYPD Stakeout Unit. This is my partner, Natasha Romanoff."

Bucky turned the badge over in his hand and looked up at Steve. "You're detectives?"

Steve nodded. "Two weeks ago, Brock Rumlow escaped from a federal penitentiary—"

"I know that," Bucky snapped. "It's been all over the news."

"The FBI has organized a nationwide manhunt to capture Rollins and Rumlow," Natasha chipped in. "People who have connections to Rumlow have been put under surveillance in case he attempts to contact or seek help from them."

"Surveillance?" Bucky repeated weakly. "So you _have_ been spying on me."

"We've been keeping watch for Rumlow," Natasha countered.

Bucky looked increasingly agitated. "You don't have cameras inside of my house, do you?"

"No, nothing like that," Steve assured him. "We've been staking out your house from an apartment across the street."

The tension in Bucky's shoulders eased a little. "So...you haven't tapped my phone or anything?"

Natasha sucked air through her teeth and screwed up her face. "Well…"

Anger flashed across Bucky's face and he rounded on Steve. "You've been listening to my phone calls?"

"Only in case Rumlow tried to contact you!" said Steve desperately.

"Which he hasn't," said Bucky hotly. "I haven't seen or spoken to him for a long time. I doubt he'd come to see me."

"We didn't think so either, but we had to cover all of our bases," Natasha argued. "We're just doing our job."

"Doing your job?" he spat. "Is talking your way into my house and my bed just part of the job too?"

"No!" said Steve and Natasha in unison.

"That was just him being a goddamn idiot," she grumbled. Steve threw her a dirty look and turned back to Bucky.

"What happened between us has nothing to do with the case."

"Then what the hell was it?" Bucky shouted. "Were you just screwing me around for the fun of it?"

"No. I...I just really like you," Steve replied weakly.

Bucky looked flabbergasted at that admission and Natasha stared at the sky above her, looking as though she was hoping lightning would strike her dead rather than suffer this awkward confrontation a moment longer. Bucky looked between the two police detectives for a long moment before he rolled his eyes and opened the door a little further.

"You better come in before you catch your death," he mumbled. "And I need to fix that hair of yours."

"There's really no need," Natasha began to argue, stepping over the threshold into the apartment, but Bucky cut her off.

"I'm not letting you walk about with a shitty hairdo, even if you are a lying sack of shit," he retorted, slamming the door shut behind them.

"Okay, I probably deserved that," she whispered to Steve out of the corner of her mouth.

Bucky washed the dye out of Natasha's hair in the kitchen sink before pulling a chair into the middle of the room and began cutting her hair into a short bob while Steve watched from the kitchen table.

"So you pretending to be a telephone repairman—what was that all about?" asked Bucky.

"I was fitting a wiretap from your house to our stakeout," Steve explained.

"Figures," Bucky muttered darkly. "I think I've finally met a nice guy and you're just a liar like all the rest."

"Steve _is_ a nice guy," Natasha argued. "Sure, he's an idiot, but he's a nice idiot."

Bucky paused and glared at her. "Do you really want to risk pissing me off any more than you already have while I'm in the middle of styling your hair?"

Natasha heeded his warning and kept her mouth shut after that.

"How long have you been watching the house for?" asked Bucky.

"A couple of weeks," said Steve.

"And my work?" he asked. Steve nodded.

"The Salon and the Asgard Club."

Bucky frowned and Natasha's eyes widened with alarm as he began cutting her hair more aggressively. "And what about you? What was the point of you coming into the salon today? Were you trying to get information out of me or something?"

"Yes, I'd like to know the answer to that too," said Steve irritably. Natasha scowled at her partner and shrugged.

"Yeah, I was trying to get some information out of you," she admitted. "But not for the case."

"Why then?"

"Because numbnuts here…" she said, jerking her thumb in Steve's direction, "has fallen head over heels for you and he's put his career—_and_ mine for that matter—on the line even just talking to you, let alone anything else you may or may not have gotten up to. I just wanted to get the measure of the guy who had made my partner throw his career out the window. I figured there was more to it than his overactive libido."

Bucky paused and looked up at Steve, "Is that true?"

Steve shrugged. "Pretty much, yeah."

Bucky pursed his lips and continued to cut Natasha's hair in contemplative silence while Natasha and Steve occasionally shared worried glances with one another. After Bucky had finished drying and styling Natasha's hair, he handed her a mirror and she smiled at her reflection.

"That looks great, thank you."

"Don't mention it," he grumbled. "This apartment you've been using as your stakeout, I want to see it."

Natasha grimaced. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"I don't care what you think," he snapped. "I want to see it. Now."

Natasha looked at Steve and shrugged. They were already fucked, so what difference did it make? Steve and Natasha reluctantly complied with Bucky's request. He followed them across the road to the abandoned apartment building, up the damp stone steps, higher and higher until they stopped at the floor with the number 45 scrawled across the front of it in black marker pen. Underneath the door number, Clint had scrawled the message _Casa del Barton_ and beneath that, Sam had drawn (and signed) an obscenely large penis with a smiley face. Bucky looked at the graffiti and cocked an eyebrow.

"Real mature," he muttered, following Natasha through the front door. Bucky walked slowly down the barren corridor, taking in every detail of the derelict apartment. He involuntarily shivered and rubbed his arms in an effort to stave off the cold.

"They never bothered to fix the central heating in this place," Natasha commented conversationally, but Bucky didn't reply. She lingered in the hallway as Bucky wandered into the living room before stopping dead when he caught sight of the work station set up by the window: the telescope pointed across the road to his apartment, the laptop and recording equipment, and two notebooks. Stepping closer, Bucky picked up one of the notebooks and flicked through what was a detailed log of his comings and goings over the last two weeks. He snapped the logbook shut and tossed it onto the table with a disgusted expression. Steve felt his stomach lurch as Bucky picked up the second book and he took a step towards him.

"That's mine," he said quickly. "It's nothing to do with the case."

Bucky gave him a withering look. "Are you really going to try and lecture me on what constitutes an invasion of privacy right now?"

Steve felt another stab of guilt at those words, but he knew that Bucky was right. He lowered his hand and worried his lip as Bucky flipped his sketchbook open to the first page. The first few pages were sketches of Natasha and some detailed drawings of Bucky's house and other homes on the street. A smile involuntarily flitted across Bucky's face as he turned the page and found several quick sketches of Misha. Steve's heart began to pound painfully in his chest as Bucky turned to the next page and he stilled. He looked up at Steve with a shocked expression but Steve couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, he listened as Bucky turned each page which just happened to be drawings of Bucky: Bucky cooking dinner. Bucky watching television. Bucky reading his book in bed...

"Why would you do this?" asked Bucky quietly.

Steve swallowed hard and shrugged. "Stakeouts are incredibly dull. I sketch things just to pass the time."

"That's not what I meant," Bucky snapped the sketchbook shut and sat it back on the table. He rubbed his eyes and turned his back on Steve, taking several deep breaths to calm himself. Turning back around to face Steve, he asked, "How much longer are you going to be here?"

"We'll be here until Rumlow is caught," said Natasha, standing by the door. "Hopefully not for too much longer."

Bucky ran his hand through his hair and chewed his lip. "What do I do if he comes to my house?"

"Nothing," said Natasha. "We're here twenty-four hours a day. Don't worry, we'll make sure nothing happens to you."

Bucky shook his head. "If you get word that Brock is coming for me, I want you to tell me straight away. I don't want to be here if he is."

"We can't do that—"

"We'll call you," said Steve quickly, cutting Natasha off.

"And once he's caught, you'll leave?" asked Bucky.

"Yes," Steve confirmed.

"And I'll never see either of you again?"

"No."

"Good." Bucky pulled Steve's phone out of his back pocket and pressed it into his hand. "I don't suppose I'll need to give you my number since you'll already know it. Oh, and for the record, I never looked at your phone because I actually respect other people's privacy."

Bucky stepped past Steve, and Natasha quickly moved out of his way as he hurried out of the apartment, making no effort to stop him. Steve, however, ran after him.

"Steve, just leave it!" Natasha pleaded, crying after him as he hurried out of the apartment and shouted down the stairwell after Bucky.

"Bucky, wait!"

Bucky stopped on the stairwell and looked up at Steve. "Only my friends call me Bucky and you are no friend of mine,_ Detective."_

He tried to say the last word with as much venom as possible, but the hurt in Bucky's voice betrayed his true feelings. Steve stepped towards him and tried to take his hand but Bucky shrugged him off.

"Don't," he warned, crossing his arms.

"I'm so sorry," said Steve mournfully. "I never meant to hurt you."

"Yeah? Well, you did," Bucky sniffed. He looked up at Steve then, his eyes brimming with tears. "I really liked you, Steve. You know that?"

"I know," Steve mumbled. "I really liked you too. I still do."

Bucky's face crumpled and he lowered his gaze. "Yeah, me too."

"Bucky…"

"It doesn't matter what you say, you're not going to be able to fix this," said Bucky firmly. "You lied to me. About everything…"

"Not everything," Steve argued. "Not about how I felt about you."

Bucky looked fiercely at Steve. "You lied about your job! You've been spying on me for weeks, listening to my phone calls, keeping tabs on _everything_ that I do!"

"We were just doing our job," said Steve quietly.

"How can I trust anything that you say?" Bucky challenged. When Steve didn't answer, he shook his head in disgust and stepped away from him. "Just leave me alone, alright?"

Bucky turned his back on Steve and walked away, leaving him alone on the stairwell feeling at a complete loss at what he should do now.


	11. Chapter 11

The first thing that Bucky did when he returned home was to close all of the curtains in his apartment, completely blocking Natasha and Steve's view of its interior. Not that they could blame him; it would be disconcerting enough to discover that your house was under constant surveillance, let alone by someone who'd betrayed his trust as profoundly as Steve had. And that didn't even factor in the matter of there being a cold-blooded killer on the loose that may or may not be looking for you.

It became clear that Bucky was more concerned with the threat posed by Rumlow than having Natasha and Steve's watchful eyes on his apartment since neither were summoned to Fury's office the next day. Or the day after that. Even when Becca came to visit her brother (and undoubtedly, to retrieve her phone) she didn't give their apartment building a second glance when she left an hour later. Steve had half-expected her to come charging up the stairs, baying for their blood, but she simply waved to Bucky from the sidewalk and strode down the street in the direction of the nearest subway. Evidently, Bucky hadn't said anything about what was happening to her either.

For three long days, Bucky remained cooped up in his apartment, the curtains drawn all the while. The only indication of life within was the occasional ghostly spectral of light from a lamp or the television screen peeking out of the edges of the curtains late at night. He didn't even go for his morning runs anymore.

Steve, meanwhile, was thoroughly miserable. He stared out of the apartment window for hours on end, replaying the events of the last couple of weeks in his mind over and over again, imagining what he could have done differently. The only thing worse than Steve's fear of losing his job was realizing how much he missed Bucky. Despite only knowing him for a short time, he'd grown to care for the man. He wondered what Bucky was doing right now, whether or not he was alright, then the familiar feeling of guilt washed over him as he reminded himself of the needless hurt and damage he had caused to his partner, to Bucky, and to himself.

Natasha's mood was no better: she was more pouty and argumentative than ever before and kept giving Steve dark, accusing looks when she thought that he wasn't looking. Things had gotten so bad between them that even Clint and Sam had noticed something was wrong.

"Have you guys had an argument or something?" Sam whispered to Steve on the fourth day. It took Steve a moment to register what Sam had said to him and he tore his gaze away from Bucky's apartment building.

"No, we're just going a little stir crazy sitting in this apartment," he lied.

"Don't I know it," Sam mumbled in agreement. "I think Clint is losing it, man. Yesterday, he called the dog Nat by accident. I think being cut off from the rest of civilization is addling his brain."

"I think this case is messing with all our brains." Steve sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. "Christ, how much longer is this stakeout going to drag on for?"

"Hopefully not too much longer, bud," said Sam, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Steve hoped that he was right. Every shift was torturous, a constant reminder of what he had lost and should never have had in the first place. Sam glanced out of the window and he knitted his brows together. "What do you think happened?"

"With what?" asked Clint, kneeling on the ground to attach Lucky's lead to his collar.

"With Barnes, obviously," he replied. "Curtains drawn. No outgoing or incoming phone calls except to call his boss and say that he was too sick to come into work…"

"Well that'll be it, won't it?" Clint shrugged, rising to his feet again. "He's probably really been sick."

But Sam shook his head. "Nah, this guy is a creature of habit. Steve, has he been going out for his morning runs?"

"Not recently, no," he said slowly.

"I think something's spooked him," said Sam, turning to Natasha. "You guys haven't seen or heard anything in the last few days that could have caused this change in his routine?"

"No," said Natasha and Steve in unison.

"But if we do see or hear anything, you'll be the first to know," Natasha promised brightly, putting her arm around Sam's shoulders and guiding him towards the exit. But just as Natasha was pulling open the front door, the telephone began to ring. Natasha slammed the door shut and hurried back into the living room, closely followed by Sam and a disgruntled-looking Clint.

"Urgh, if only I'd left a few seconds earlier!" he lamented, stepping over to the work station where the rest of his teammates waited anxiously for Bucky to answer the phone.

"I'm sure it's nothing," Natasha assured him. "It's probably his sister checking up on him. You'll be out of here in no time."

Everyone fell silent as the phone clicked, indicating Bucky had picked up the receiver. A moment later, they heard his voice.

"Hello?" There was a nervous note in his voice that Steve had never heard before.

"Bucky, it's Ramonda."

The tension in Natasha's face eased and she let out a sigh of relief. "It's just Bucky's boss at the salon. Told you it'd be nothing."

"How are you feeling today?" Ramonda asked. The noise of the salon could be heard in the background.

"A little better, thanks," Bucky replied. His voice sounded low and rough as though he hadn't been getting much sleep. "Hopefully I'll be well enough to come in tomorrow."

"Take all the time you need," Ramonda assured him. "We don't want the clients catching what you've got."

Bucky chuckled. "Good point. Thanks."

"This sounds like a social call," Natasha concluded.

"Well, if that's all it is, then I'll be taking my leave!" Clint announced brightly. He turned to leave but he hadn't taken more than a few steps when his cellphone started to ring. Pulling it out of his pocket, he frowned and stepped out of the room to answer it. "Barton. Yes, sir. Yeah, we're all here, we're just about to change shifts. Why, what's—_what?"_

Steve's head snapped towards the hallway where Clint was standing. He wanted to know who was calling but he was torn between listening to what Ramonda had to say and what had Clint so riled up.

"There was another reason I was calling you," said Ramonda, a note of worry in her voice. "Someone just called the salon looking for you."

"A client?" asked Bucky.

"No, they wouldn't give me their name," said Ramonda. "It was a man."

There was a long pause before Bucky answered, "Oh right."

Clint came marching back into the living room then, his phone still pressed to his ear. He nodded and said quietly, "I'll let them know, sir," before hanging up.

"...When I said that you weren't in work today, he asked for your home address," Ramonda continued.

"What?" Bucky exclaimed.

Steve, Natasha, and Sam shared a worried look with one another. Only Clint didn't look surprised to hear this information.

"I wouldn't tell him where you lived," Ramonda assured him. "But he got real angry when I wouldn't tell him. He threatened to come around to the salon and...well, won't tell you what he said, but I hung up on him then."

"When did he call?" asked Bucky.

"Just now. I didn't like the sound of this guy, not one bit…"

"And you didn't tell him where I live?" he inquired, sounding increasingly desperate.

"Of course not! Bucky...are you in some kind of trouble?"

"I'm sorry Ramonda, I need to go."

Bucky hung up on Ramonda and the recording equipment automatically went on standby. Natasha immediately turned to Clint and asked, "Who was that on the phone?"

"Captain Fury," he replied, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "The guys down at Second Precinct have spotted Rollins and Rumlow near Ramonda's Salon."

"You're shitting me!" she exclaimed.

The recording equipment clicked loudly and whirred into life again as Bucky picked up the telephone and dialed the number to his sister Becca. After a few moments, the call connected and Becca's voice came out of the recording equipment's speaker.

"Bucky! Kak ty sebya choostvoo yete?" she greeted him brightly. She started speaking (Steve had no clue what about) but Bucky was quick to cut her off.

"Becca, poslushay menya," he said in rapid Russian. "Brock...on nashel menya."

_"Shto?"_

"What are they saying?" asked Sam.

"Give me a minute!" Natasha hissed, pressing the headphone closer to her ear. "He's telling her to pack a bag and go to Winnie's house."

"Winnie?"

"One of their sisters," Steve explained. "She lives in Queens."

Sam gave Steve a curious look. "How the hell do you know that?"

"Shh!" Natasha chastised. "She's asking him where he's going...he says that he's going to mom and dad's place."

Steve frowned. "Are you sure that's what he said—"

Natasha covered his mouth with her hand to silence him and continued, "He says he'll call her when he gets there. Keep safe. I love you...I love you too."

The line went dead and the recording equipment went on standby again. The room was eerily silent for a few moments, which was broken by Steve when he turned to Natasha.

"He definitely said that he was going to mom and dad's place?" he asked.

"That's what he said," she confirmed. "Why? What's the problem?"

"His parents are dead."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Well, I don't know what else to tell you because that's what he said."

Steve glanced out of the window to the street below, half-expecting to see Rollins and Rumlow stalking up the steep steps to Bucky's apartment. He turned back to Natasha and said urgently, "Ramonda's Salon is only a few blocks away from here. Rollins and Rumlow could be on their way here right now."

"If that's the case, then we only have a few minutes to get ready," said Sam, pulling his pistol out of his holster and checking the barrel.

"Great. Looks like the shit's about to hit the fan," Clint grumbled, cocking his own gun. "Just when I was gonna go for my dinner."

Lucky barked in affirmation and wagged his tail, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen. Steve looked out the window again, bouncing his foot up and down like he always did when he was agitated. Natasha gave him a warning look as though she could read his mind.

"I know what you're thinking…" she began.

"I can't just sit here and do nothing," he argued. "What if Bucky runs into them on the way to the subway? What if they escape and track him down and I didn't do anything to stop them?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Sam sounding confused, but neither of them answered his question. Instead, Natasha bit her lip and gave Steve a curt nod. Unwilling to waste another second, Steve leapt to his feet and ran out of the apartment with Sam yelling after him, "Hey! Where are you going? Nat, what's going on?"

Steve didn't stop to explain; Natasha would have to do that for him. Bounding down the stone staircase two and three steps at a time, he exited the building in time to see Bucky hurry down the steps of his apartment with his large black backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Bucky!" he cried, running to his side. Bucky skidded to a halt when he saw Steve and turned towards him.

"It's Brock, isn't it?" Bucky pleaded, making no effort to hide the fear in his voice. "He's coming after me."

"Rumlow and Rollins have been sighted," Steve confirmed, grabbing Bucky's shoulder and giving it a squeeze. "But we're all here, Buck. We won't let anything happen to you."

_"Steve!"_

Bucky and Steve turned to see Nat, Sam, Clint and Lucky running across the road to talk to them. Clint was breathless but still managed to huff out, "They've lost sight of them."

"Shitshitshit!" Bucky ran his hands through his hair, looking terrified. "If Brock's on his way he could be here any minute!"

"Come into police custody," Natasha urged him. "We can protect you."

Buck let out a humorless laugh and stepped away from him. "No way. I already told you, I've got no intention of being here when he turns up. I'm getting the hell outta here…"

"And where the hell are you going to go?" Steve cried. "How are you even going to get there? On foot? Your bike is still in the shop, you don't even have a car!"

"I'll work it out!" Bucky shouted.

"Guys, we don't have time for a lover's tiff!" said Natasha through gritted teeth, which drew shocked and confused looks from both Clint and Sam. "We need to get Barnes off of the street now!"

"If I go with you, he'll find me," Bucky warned, turning to leave. "You guys have no idea who you're dealing with or what he's capable of."

"If you won't go into police custody, then I'm going with you," Steve declared. Bucky gaped at him.

_"What?"_

"Steve!" Natasha groaned.

"You've got a better chance with me at your side than you do on your own," he argued. "You know I'm right."

"Steve, if you do this, it'll mean your badge," Natasha warned.

"Fine."

Sam and Clint looked on with alarm as Steve pulled his police badge out of his pocket and thrust it into Natasha's hand. As he started to unbutton the holster holding his gun, Natasha grabbed his arm.

"Stop," she said firmly. She shook her head at him in dismay. "God, you're such an idiot. Keep the gun, you might need it. And take this." She pressed the keys to her truck into his hand and gave him a serious look. "You better get out of here. It's best if he's not here for the next part...I hope he's worth it."

"What the fuck is happening?" Clint cried.

"Steve, you can't do this," said Bucky weakly.

"I just did." He grabbed Bucky by the elbow and pulled him towards the truck. "Come on, we gotta go."

"Nat! What is going on?!" Sam yelled.

"I'll explain later!" she snapped, pulling her pistol out of the holster and cocking it. "The cavalry will be here soon, so get your shit together."

Steve didn't hear what Natasha said next as she began instructing Sam and Clint to take positions on the street. As soon as he and Bucky were inside the truck, he turned the key in the ignition and revved the engine, tearing off down the street as fast as he could. Bucky struggled to put his seatbelt on but when he finally managed to clip it into place, he slumped back into his seat and let out a low, mournful groan.

"This whole situation is fucked," he muttered, hiding his face in his hands.

"I know," Steve sighed. "Where are we headed?"

"Just get us onto the freeway."

"In which direction?"

Bucky's hands slid from his face and he stared at the road ahead with an unreadable expression. "North."


	12. Chapter 12

By the time they had driven out of the Battery Park Underpass, what little daylight that remained had disappeared below the horizon. Other than Bucky giving Steve the occasional direction, the silence in the car was drawn-out and awkward. Steve kept stealing glances in Bucky's direction; he had his arms crossed and stared fixedly out of the passenger window at the passing cars and buildings that lined the freeway.

"I'm glad that you decided to come with me," said Steve gently. Bucky huffed out a derisive laugh.

"I didn't have much choice, did I?" he sneered, keeping his gaze fixed on the outside world. "It was either leave with you or take my chances with my homicidal ex-boyfriend. What would you have done?"

"Fair point," Steve conceded.

They fell into another awkward silence. Steve drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, wishing that he was more skilled at small talk like Sam was. Unable to take the silence any longer, Steve switched on the radio.

_"—are listening to SiriusXM! The time is six o'clock and here are today's headlines: The manhunt for the escaped convict, Brock Rumlow, continues as the police confirm Rumlow and his accomplice, Jack Rollins, were spotted in the Red Hook area of Brookl—"_

Steve quickly switched the channels but found that the same story was playing on all of the stations, so he turned it off instead. Noticing that Natasha had left her iPod in the car, he decided to try that instead. Maybe she had some decent music that could distract them. As Steve pressed play, he and Bucky both jumped in fright as a symphony of electric guitars and thrashing drums exploded out of the speakers at an ear-splitting volume. Steve could barely hear Bucky shouting at him to switch it off as the singer began to scream the lyrics, but after a few moments of scrambling desperately for the off switch, the song stopped as abruptly as it had begun, leaving their ears ringing.

"Jesus, Nat…" Steve muttered, shaking his head.

A small smile flitted across Bucky's face then but when Steve turned to look at him, his smile quickly fell and he turned back to face the passenger window. Silence returned as they left the city far behind, the skyscrapers vanishing into the distance, replaced with tall trees and the snow-peaked Catskill Mountains looming overhead. As the snow began to fall, Steve turned on the windshield wipers. Hopefully, it wouldn't cause them too much trouble on the roads.

"How much longer 'til we reach our destination?" he asked.

"Another hour," Bucky estimated.

"Okay." Steve cast another nervous glance at Bucky. "I know that it probably doesn't mean much coming from me but I wanted to say that I'm sorry. About everything."

"Yeah, you've said that already," Bucky replied stiffly. Just when Steve thought that they were going to spend the rest of the journey with nothing but the sound of the windshield wipers to distract them, Bucky turned to him and asked, "Was all of it a lie? Was anything that you told me true?"

"Most of it was true," Steve assured him. "The story about me working as a telephone repairman was a lie, but everything that happened between us...that was real. At least, it was real for me."

Bucky didn't look convinced by this proclamation and Steve couldn't blame him; he'd have trouble believing him too.

"Tell you what: if you want to ask me questions, I'll answer them truthfully," he offered.

Bucky's eyes narrowed. "How many questions?"

"As many as you like. And nothing's off limits."

"Why should I believe anything that you say?" he asked suspiciously.

"Because I've got no more reason to lie to you," Steve argued. "After this is all over I'll be looking for a new job."

Bucky thought for a moment then asked, "Alright. Is Steve even your real name?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Steven Grant Rogers, at your service."

Bucky didn't crack a smile at Steve's lame attempt to keep things light and humorous. Instead, he asked, "How long have you been a cop for?"

"Twelve years on the force, four years as a detective."

"Hmm. Well, from what I gather, you're pretty good at your job," Bucky mused. "Why would you throw it all away for someone that you barely know?"

"Because it's the right thing to do," said Steve sincerely.

Bucky barked out a laugh and shook his head. "That's crazy, man."

"I said that I wouldn't let anything happen to you and I meant it. I'm a man of my word." Bucky clicked his tongue disapprovingly and Steve added, "Okay, so I wasn't entirely truthful with you about some things, but I always keep my promises."

"I'll believe that when I see it," he replied skeptically. "Is there anything else that I should know about you that you haven't cared to mention before? And I mean important stuff, not pointless shit like what your favorite restaurant is or anything like that."

Steve thought for a moment. "Well, I suppose it's important to mention that I'm divorced."

Bucky's eyes widened with surprise. "You were married?"

"Yep."

"To a woman?"

"Yes," he said a little defensively. "Why, is that an issue?"

"No, it's just surprising, is all," Bucky shook his head. "You're just full of secrets, aren't you?"

"I'm not the only one with secrets though, am I?"

Bucky bristled when Steve said that and he gave him a hard look. "Well, what about all of that stuff you told me about your parents—was _that_ true?"

"Every word of it," Steve confirmed.

"Oh." The tension eased in Bucky's shoulders and he unfolded his arms, resting his hands on his lap. "Well...I'm sorry that part is true."

"Yeah, me too," said Steve quietly. "Do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Bucky shrugged. "Fire away. It doesn't mean that I'll answer it."

"You're a sweet guy—"

"Don't I know it," he joked.

"You work hard to take care of your sisters, you bring people in out of the cold and offer them cups of coffee to warm them up…" Steve continued.

"Only the good-looking ones."

"How did you wind up getting involved with someone like Brock Rumlow?"

Bucky's shoulders sagged and he thumped the back of his head against the headrest. "It's a long story."

"We've got nothing but time at the moment," Steve argued. "Unless you'd rather listen to some more of Nat's music?"

"Hell no," he replied roughly. He sighed and closed his eyes. He seemed to be contemplating whether or not he should answer Steve's question but finally he opened his eyes again and said, "I imagine with your job it sometimes feels like you've got the weight of the world on your shoulders, am I right?"

Steve nodded. "Yeah, quite frequently."

"Well, imagine being eighteen years old and that being true: your parents are dead and suddenly you've got three kids relying on you for everything, and you haven't a goddamn clue what you're doing."

"Sounds pretty scary to me."

"It was," Bucky agreed. "Thankfully, I'd already started working at my local salon the previous summer."

"Ramonda's?" Steve guessed but Bucky shook his head.

"A place called Misty's in Hell's Kitchen. That's where I grew up," he explained. "At that time I was saving up to go to nursing school, but after my parents died, my life and plans for the future took a back seat; unfortunately, dreams and ambitions don't put food on the table and I had to put my sisters' wellbeing first. Every cent I earned from the salon went to taking care of them—paying for rent, food, their school books—but even though I was working full time, I still wasn't making enough to pay the bills, so I had to get a second job just to make ends meet. I managed to get bar work at Club Hydra—"

"Club Hydra?" Steve repeated, aghast. "Jesus Buck, that place is rough."

"Well, it was either that or Harlem's Paradise."

Steve shook his head. "I don't know which one's worse."

"Tell me about it," Bucky chuckled. "Not many other places are willing to let someone underage work at the bar. And let's be honest, on the spectrum of the illegal activities that take place there, hiring me was a drop in the ocean compared to the dirty deals going on."

Steve wasn't going to argue with that. The likes of Wilson Fisk and Cornell Bertram Stokes paid the local cops to turn a blind eye to worse things than someone under the legal limit selling liquor at a bar.

"To be honest, I didn't give a shit what they were doing behind closed doors, I just needed the money," Bucky admitted. Steve gave him a sympathetic look.

"I get it: your sisters came first."

"Exactly. Anyway, one night I'm working the bar and this group of bozos come in. They were already shitfaced when they turned up at the club but they were flashing their cash, so the bouncers let them in 'cause we're more than happy to help them part with it, ya know?" Bucky gave a weary sigh and rubbed the back of his neck. "Come to the end of the night, these guys were mouthing off at the staff and customers, and suddenly they were more trouble than they were worth, so I cut them off. Well, that _really_ pissed them off: they started hurling abuse at me, but the guys at the door swooped in and got rid of them pretty fast. After that, I went back to work and didn't give them a second thought."

Steve had a horrible feeling that he knew where this story was headed, but he kept his mouth shut and listened to Bucky tell him what happened next.

"As I'm leaving the club at the end of the night, the guys are waiting for me." Bucky spoke matter-of-factly but he stared at his feet as he did so. "They started pushing me around, calling me a fag and laughing at me. Next thing I know I'm on the ground having the shit kicked out of me."

"Jesus," Steve muttered.

"They probably would have killed me if Brock hadn't stepped in and stopped them."

Steve looked sharply at Bucky. "Brock Rumlow?"

Bucky nodded. "He'd been in the club earlier in the evening. Apparently, he'd tried chatting me up when I'd served him a couple of drinks, but honestly, I can't remember seeing him. Well, he'd been standing on the street corner having a smoke when he saw the guys jump me and drag me into an alleyway, so he came to my rescue."

A strange, almost fond smile teased the corners of Bucky's lips at the memory. "He took out three guys as if it was nothing. I've never seen anyone fight like that before. I mean, it was vicious and scary as hell to watch, but I wasn't sorry to see these punks get a taste of their own medicine. After they ran off, Brock helped me back to my feet and asked if I was okay. He wanted to take me to the hospital to get checked out, but I told him that I didn't have insurance, so he walked me back home and helped patch me back up there. Turns out he'd learned a few things while he was in the military—not just how to break bones but how to set them again. Pretty useful skills when you conduct business in a reputable club like Hydra."

"So that's how you met," said Steve. "It was purely by chance."

"Yup. Well, technically he was at the club for business—he did some odd jobs for Fisk—but I knew better than to ask him about that," Bucky admitted. "I was just so grateful for him stepping in like that, for saving my life. Of course, after that night I took more notice of him around the club. He'd come and check up on me, ask me how I was doing...he was so charming and handsome. He seemed like a nice guy."

Bucky went quiet for a moment and stared out of the window again. "Every second of my day was spent providing for my sisters. I don't resent them for it, I wanted to take care of them, but it was exhausting. I was second-guessing myself all of the time, scared that I was making the wrong choices and that I'd screw things up even worse than they already were. Then suddenly I meet this guy who makes me feel special, who says that he wants to take care of me and my sisters...it's hard to resist."

Bucky's expression grew dark. "Things were fine in the beginning but that didn't last long. Brock would go into these moods that would last for days; his behavior was always unpredictable, you just didn't know who you were going to open the door to each day. He was really possessive, too, suspicious of who I was talking to and who I was spending time with when he wasn't there, always accusing me of cheating on him with customers and coworkers at the club. He started checking my text messages all of the time trying to catch me out in a lie, calling me up fifty times a day just to keep tabs on me, even when I was at work. And if I didn't pick up the phone when he called, he'd lose his shit and leave threatening voicemails."

Steve's grip on the steering wheel tightened. While he wasn't surprised to hear this about Rumlow—it fitted the profile that the FBI had sent them—it was difficult listening to Bucky talk about it. He tried his best to squash the hot anger bubbling up inside of him and kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, allowing Bucky to say his piece in his own time.

"The managers at the club were getting sick of Brock calling up all of the time. I was at risk of losing my job, my sisters were scared of him—they said that I should call the police."

"And did you?" asked Steve.

"I thought about it," said Bucky, his voice so quiet now it was barely above a whisper. "But I was afraid of what he would do to me if I tried to break up with him."

"So what happened?"

"Well, as luck would have it—well, lucky for me, at least—Brock managed to get himself arrested. He got caught up in a drug bust and ended up killing an FBI agent in the process. Even Fisk can't help out with something that serious, so he cut him loose. When Brock called me to tell me what had happened, I wasn't even upset—I was relieved. I figured once he went to jail, that would be the end of it between us."

"I take it that it wasn't though?"

Bucky made a disgruntled sound. "Hell no. I started getting phone calls and letters from him in prison. And since he couldn't do it himself anymore, he got his friends to start keeping tabs on me instead: his cousin, Jack, turned up at my old apartment, telling me that if I knew what was good for me I'd better answer Brock's letters. It scared the hell out of me when he did that, I didn't think he even knew where I lived." Bucky sighed and shook his head. "Even locked up hundreds of miles away, Brock was still trying to control my life."

"So, what did you do?" asked Steve.

"I traveled down to Georgia to see him," he said. "I'd finally decided that enough was enough. I told him to his face that we were through and to never contact me again."

Steve shot Bucky an impressed look. "You really said that to him?"

"Yup. Funny how much braver you feel when there are a few inches of bullet-proof glass between you and the person you're confronting."

"How did he react when you told him that you were through with him?" asked Steve curiously.

"About as well as you would expect," he sighed. "He threw his chair at the glass window and started screaming his head off and threatening to kill me."

Steve felt another rush of hot anger swell in the pit of his stomach hearing that. He rarely lost his temper or resorted to violence, but he had the feeling that if Rumlow was unfortunate enough to cross paths with him, he would struggle to keep his hands to himself.

"After that, I came home, packed my bags and moved out of Hell's Kitchen," Bucky continued, sounding a little perkier now. "I found the apartment that I'm living in now, got a job as a stylist at Ramonda's and have been working there ever since. My experience working in Hydra helped get me a job in The Asgard Club; it's a much classier joint than Hydra—a lot friendlier and a lot safer. Not so many criminal types like to hang around Brooklyn's best gay bar."

"That's great, Bucky," said Steve sincerely. "Sounds like you were able to make a fresh start."

"I tried," he shrugged. "I also swore off social media and ditched my cell phone. Since then, I've tried to keep my head down and make myself as invisible as possible."

"Well, you did a pretty good job of that," Steve assured him. "The information that the FBI had on you was very sparse."

"It wasn't good enough though, was it?" said Bucky glumly.

Steve wanted to reach out and hold Bucky's hand to give him some comfort and reassurance, but he resisted the urge, partly because he had to concentrate on driving but mainly because he didn't want to push his luck. Bucky might have opened up to him about his situation but that didn't mean that what had happened between them was water under the bridge. Instead, Steve said gently, "It sounds like you've had a rough few years. I'm sorry I added to your burdens."

Bucky sighed and shook his head. "It's fine. I mean, it's _not_ fine but I get it: you were just doing your job. Mostly."

"Mostly," Steve smiled.

Bucky returned the smile and they fell into an amicable silence. It was then that Steve became acutely aware of just how dark it was outside. After spending his entire life in a city of neverending lights, the utter blackness of the surrounding forest was a little unnerving. The snow was much heavier now too and the wipers were struggling to keep the windshield clear of sleet.

"How much farther?" he asked.

"Not too much longer now," said Bucky. "Just follow the road until we reach a fork then turn right."

Steve was quietly thankful that they were driving Natasha's truck because there was no way in hell Bucky's bike would have made it along the snowy, uneven path they were now trundling down. Just when he was beginning to wonder if this dark, foreboding-looking path was ever going to end, the trees suddenly vanished and they drove into a wide clearing. A small wooden cabin soon came into view and Bucky let out a sigh of relief.

"This is it," he confirmed.

Steve parked in front of the darkened cabin. Climbing out of the truck, he turned to Bucky and asked, "What is this place?"

"My parents used to bring us here for summer vacations," he explained, hurrying up the wooden steps and kicking the snow off his boots before unlocking the front door. The door creaked loudly as he pushed it open and he beckoned Steve inside. Bucky tried flipping the light switch but no lights came on. Cursing under his breath, he pulled a flashlight from his backpack and stalked over to the hearth. Thankfully, it still had dry logs and coals beside it and he began to build a fire. "I won't be long getting this lit. Once the fire's going, the place'll warm up nicely."

Steve certainly hoped so. He pulled his coat closer to his neck and suppressed a shiver. The interior was as cold as it was standing outside in the snow. Christ, it was colder than the dingy apartment he'd spent the last few weeks cooped up in. In an effort to make himself useful, and to stop himself freezing on the spot, he began rummaging through the cupboards for anything to eat or drink, using the light from his cell to guide him.

"Becca was up here with some friends over the summer, fingers crossed she left some canned food behind for us," said Bucky hopefully, striking his flint lighter to ignite the balled up newspapers in the hearth. Steve checked all of the cupboards and drawers in the small kitchen for something to eat but the pickings were predictably slim.

"Any luck?" Bucky called over to him.

"That depends on how desperate you are." He slammed a cheap bottle of vodka onto the kitchen counter and a large bag of potato chips, mercifully unopened. Bucky snorted and shook his head.

"It'll have to do," he chuckled, stoking the fire into life. "There's a store a couple of miles from here, we can stock up on supplies tomorrow."

"And until then?"

Bucky placed the fire iron back into the stand and approached Steve, cracked the lid off of the vodka bottle and raised it in a toast to them both, "Prijatnogo appetita."

He took a large swig without even flinching then offered a drink to Steve. Steve looked at the bottle but he didn't take it from Bucky's outstretched hand.

"I probably shouldn't…"

"Why not? Are you on the clock?" he challenged.

He had a point there. Steve took the bottle, said 'cheers' and took a large swig of the vodka, grimacing as the hot malty liquid burned his throat and warmed his empty stomach. Bucky managed to find some thick patchwork quilts in a cupboard and soon the two men were camped out in front of the roaring fire with their vodka and potato chips, shivering as they struggled to keep warm. But by the time the bottle was half-empty, the cabin had warmed up considerably and they were able to shed their blankets and coats.

"You know, now that I'm no longer at risk of hypothermia, this place isn't half-bad," said Steve, admiring the small but homely interior.

"I'm glad you approve," said Bucky sarcastically. "I mean, it's not The Hilton but it's got everything that you need."

"Everything except electricity."

"The generator's just acting up," Bucky argued. "I'll take a look at it in the morning."

Steve took another swig of the vodka and asked, "I hope that you don't mind me asking but how can you afford a place like this?"

"That's another long story," Bucky mumbled through a mouthful of chips.

Steve shrugged. "I'm not going anywhere."

Bucky huffed out a laugh and popped another chip in his mouth. "Alright. Well, the car accident that killed my parents, the guy responsible was some rich prick called Alexander Pierce. He was drunk at the wheel when he hit us head-on, so it should have been an open and shut case, the guy was guilty as sin. But you know what it's like when you're rich; you can get away with murder—literally."

Bucky wiped the crumbs from his mouth and continued, "I didn't have the money to drag Pierce to court, so I figured that was the end of it. But a couple years after the accident, I was talking to a client of mine at the salon about what had happened. She asked if it was alright if she told her lawyer friend about my case, see if there was something that he could do to help. I said sure, knock yourself out, thinking nothing would come of it. But then the very next day, this blind guy shows up at the salon asking for me. Turns out he was Claire's lawyer friend and he was interested in taking my case_ pro bono."_

Steve's ears pricked up then. "A blind fella? His name wouldn't happen to be Matt Murdock, by any chance?"

"Yeah! Do you know him?"

"Sort of. He's got quite the reputation in law enforcement, even in the Brooklyn area. I've heard that he's a really good lawyer."

"He's not good, he's brilliant," Bucky gushed. "Well, long story short, he filed a wrongful death lawsuit against Pierce. Now, I don't know what Matt said or did to Pierce—maybe the threat of having his good name dragged through the civil action courts was bad for business—but he settled with us pretty soon after."

"That's great," smiled Steve. "So, you bought this place with the money you got from the settlement?"

"Well, the first thing that I did was set up college funds for my sisters. Then when I saw that this place was up for sale, I had to buy it. Some of the happiest times of my life were spent up here with my family, so I bought it for me and my sisters to share. The money I had leftover went towards getting my bike." Bucky went to take a swig from the bottle but paused. "I mean, the money was handy and all, but that obviously wasn't what the court case was about. I just wanted that fucker to be held responsible for what he did to my family."

Rather than take another drink, Bucky set the bottle to one side and hugged his knees to his chest, his expression forlorn as he stared into the fire. Steve couldn't find words that could sufficiently summarize all of the shit that Bucky had gone through in his life. He wanted to tell Bucky how amazing he was, to survive so much hardship and still be so good and kind. He wanted to reassure Bucky and tell him that so long as he was there, he wouldn't let anyone else hurt him. He wanted to tell him all sorts of things that he really shouldn't say, so he just kept his mouth shut. Instead, he cautiously wrapped his arm around Bucky's shoulder and was relieved when instead of pushing him away, Bucky leaned closer, resting his head against Steve's shoulder.

"You know, I'd thought about bringing you up here for a visit," said Bucky suddenly. "I'd planned on doing it under different circumstances, of course."

Steve laughed softly. "Of course. That would have been nice. Although, I'd probably have left the gun behind and brought a change of underwear."

Bucky snorted with laughter. "God, it's annoying."

"What is?"

"How much you make me laugh even when I'm pissed at you."

Steve smirked. "Sorry. I'll try and be less amusing from now on."

"You do that," Bucky chided jokingly.

Steve's eyes fell on the black backpack Bucky had brought with him which he always seemed to keep within arms reach.

"You mind if I ask what you brought along with you?" he asked.

"Just some essentials," said Bucky. "A first aid kit, flashlight, cell phone, some cash…"

"All very sensible things to take with you when you're on the run," Steve mused. "How long have you had that bag packed and ready to go?"

"A while," he admitted quietly. "Even before Brock escaped prison. I kept it under my bed just in case."

"Really?"

Bucky nodded. "It made me feel a little safer knowing that I was ready to leave at a moment's notice."

"Well, your planning certainly paid off," said Steve. "I've only got the clothes on my back. I didn't even bring a phone charger."

"You've got a gun," Bucky reminded him. "Sounds like you're prepared for anything."

"I'm prepared for the worst, at least."

Bucky looked up at Steve with a curious expression. "I've been thinking a lot over the last couple of days. If you hadn't had to stakeout my apartment, do you think we'd have ever met?"

Steve shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe. We might have seen each other at The Met."

"Probably not though..." Bucky bit his lip and asked, "If I said that I'm still glad that we met, even under current circumstances, would you think I was crazy?"

Steve smiled and shook his head. "No. I'm still glad that I met you, too."

He was surprised when he felt Bucky's fingertips graze his cheek then. He held his breath as Bucky carded his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and pressed their foreheads together, his heart pounding hard in his chest as Bucky's breathing became slower, deeper.

"And if I said that even after everything I still don't regret the things that we did...would you think I was crazy then?" he murmured.

Steve swallowed hard and shook his head. Bucky still looked nervous but he leaned closer and pressed their lips together in a tender kiss. The tension in his lips eased when Steve began to kiss him back—as if he wouldn't—and soon the tentative kiss grew more passionate, more desperate. For the last few days, Steve had felt so lost. In truth, he'd felt lost long before this case ever fell in his lap, but here in Bucky's arms, none of that seemed to matter so much anymore. When he was with Bucky, he finally felt as though he had found himself again.

Inside the confines of the secluded cabin and away from prying eyes, it was easy for Steve to convince himself that the rest of the world didn't exist and neither did any of the problems that came with it. The only thing that mattered right now was the person in front of him, pulling him to his feet and guiding him to the bedroom. It didn't take long for them to lose their clothes, but Bucky had the wherewithal to pull a condom and a packet of lube from his wallet and toss them on the bedside table before climbing onto the bed.

"Thank god you're more organized than I am," said Steve lightly, crawling up the bed after Bucky.

Bucky laughed and pushed Steve onto his back before straddling his hips. The only source of light in the room was a sliver of firelight from the living room, but the darkness seemed to heighten his other senses: Bucky's soft warm hands left a trail of goosebumps in their wake as he moved them slowly but with purpose over Steve's body, across his chest and arms, leaning down to cup his face and kiss him again. It was as though he were mapping Steve's body with his fingertips, trying to memorize every dip and mound, every sharp angle and curve. For a while, all they did was kiss and caress one another while Bucky's cock grew hard against the press of their bodies, smearing precum across Steve's stomach.

Steve was as hard as Bucky was, only he didn't have anything to relieve the mounting pressure between his legs. Sensing Steve's frustration, Bucky shuffled back far enough so that Steve's cock slipped between his asscheeks. Steve gasped and dug his fingers into the soft flesh of Bucky's round globes, pressing them closer together to increase the friction when Bucky began to grind his ass against Steve's slick prick.

"Mm, you like that, don't you?" Bucky purred as Steve moaned and squirmed with pleasure beneath him. "Just think how good is going to feel when you slide your dick inside of me."

Steve wouldn't be able to hold off much longer if Bucky continued his teasing ministrations, so even though it felt like his brain was a thick fog of desire, he managed to ask, "Is that how you want it?"

Bucky paused and asked, "Do you like to top?"

"I can do that."

Bucky's eyebrows shot up in surprise, "You prefer to bottom?"

"I like both."

A wicked grin spread across Bucky's face then and he leaned forward to capture Steve's lips in another electrifying kiss. Evidently, this was yet another thing that they had in common. When he broke the kiss, Bucky whispered against his lips, "Well tonight, I want you to fuck me."

Steve's cock twitched at those words and he was eager to oblige Bucky his every wish. Wrapping Bucky in a bearhug, he rolled them over until Bucky was beneath him. He took his time leaving a trail of teasing bites and kisses down Bucky's body until he was positioned comfortably between his legs. Lying flat on his stomach, Steve propped himself up onto his elbows and took a moment to admire the view before him. Bucky's cock was thick and smooth with a thatch of dark hair on his mons. Steve would love to know how it felt to ride it but tonight he wanted to focus on giving Bucky what he wanted. It had been a long time since he'd gone to bed with another guy, but although he was a little apprehensive about it, the way Bucky gently ran his fingers through Steve's hair made him feel instantly more at ease.

Bucky's breathing quickened as Steve took the base of his cock in hand and teasingly ran the flat of his tongue over the sensitive glans. Lapping up the salty precum leaking from the tip, Steve moaned at the taste before taking the head into his mouth and giving it a light suck, which caused Bucky's breath to hitch and his leg to twitch involuntarily. Steve smiled to himself at the response and dipped his head lower, taking Bucky's full length into his mouth. He held his breath, preparing himself for when the tip of Bucky's cock hit the back of his throat, then slowly withdrew, dragging his taut lips and tongue over the shaft.

"Holy shit," Bucky whimpered. His grip in Steve's hair tightened, encouraging him to go faster. "Keep doing that."

Steve gladly obliged, repeating the motion over and over again as he varied the pressure of his tongue and lips as they dragged up and down over Bucky's length. When he felt Bucky twitch in his mouth, he realized that he must be close to coming, so he left a teasing kiss on the tip before pulling away. Bucky groaned in displeasure when Steve moved away to coat his fingers in lube, but Steve made up for it by moving back between his legs and running the flat of his tongue from Bucky's balls, up the full length of his shaft and took Bucky's cock into his mouth again, all in one fluid motion.

While Steve continued to suck Bucky's cock, he slowly began to circle his index finger around Bucky's hole, which contracted at his tentative touch. He gently pushed his index finger past the fluttering ring of muscles, too slowly for Bucky's liking, who pressed back into Steve's finger until it slipped easily in.

"Fuuuuuck," Bucky hissed, thrusting down on Steve's finger. When Steve crooked the tip of his finger and brushed against the prostate, Bucky's back arched and he groaned loudly, "Mmm, pupsik, tak khorosho…"

Even though Steve had no clue what he was saying, hearing Bucky so far gone that he could only speak in Russian was like a shot of electricity to the tip of his cock. As Bucky's body adjusted and relaxed, he was rewarded with a second finger, and soon he was muttering and moaning incoherently in broken English and Russian as Steve continued to suck and finger him. Steve was in danger of coming himself and he tried rubbing his erection against the mattress in a vain effort to relieve the pressure in his balls. Not a moment too soon, Bucky gently tugged Steve's hair to get his attention.

"I'm ready," he said breathlessly.

Steve pulled away and nodded vigorously. He knelt back as he slipped on the condom and spread a generous amount of lube over his length. Grabbing Bucky by the waist, he roughly pulled him further down the bed and lined his cock at Bucky's entrance. Even though it was dark, Steve could see Bucky's chest rising and falling quickly, but he had a dreamy expression on his face. Steve nudged the tip of his cock against Bucky's hole and slowly sank into him, the incredible heat and tightness of his body left Steve breathless. Bucky had his eyes clamped tightly shut but when he told Steve to move he did as he was commanded and began to withdraw, almost pulling out entirely before sliding his cock back inside again in one smooth stroke. Bucky threw his head back against the pillow and whimpered, his voice etched with a mixture of pain and pleasure, but he told Steve, "Don't stop."

In an effort to distract Bucky from the pain, Steve leaned back and took Bucky's softened cock in his hand and began to stroke him back to fullness.

"Oh fuck yes," Bucky groaned. "Keep doing that."

Steve picked up the pace, pistoning his hips back and forth in time with his hand pumping Bucky's cock. Bucky was writhing with pleasure beneath him, desperately clutching the bedsheets for purchase as Steve simultaneously jerked and fucked him closer and closer to climax. Without warning, Bucky's breath hitched and his eyes flew open.

"Oh fuck," he choked. "Fuck, I'm gonna…"

Bucky never finished the sentence because a moment later his back arched off of the bed and he cried out as he came. Steve groaned loudly as he watched Bucky paint his own stomach and Steve's hand with streaks of hot semen. Steve could have came himself just from watching Bucky come undone, his face contorted with ecstasy as he panted and moaned, completely lost to pleasure. As Bucky began to come down from his post-orgasmic high, Steve slowed his pace and milked Bucky's spent cock, relishing the delicious mewling noises he was making. When it became too sensitive, Bucky pushed Steve's hand away and brushed his long, sweat-drenched hair from his face.

"Fuck me," he sighed, flopping his head back against the bed. "Are you always that good in bed or were you making an effort to get back into my good books?"

Steve huffed out a laugh and carefully pulled his still-hard cock out of Bucky and lay next to him, peppering his shoulder with kisses. "I just want to make you feel as good as possible."

"Well, you managed that in spades," he assured him. Without warning, Bucky straddled Steve's lap again and looked down at him, his eyes dark and full of want. Scraping his short fingernails across Steve's chest, he added, "But now it's your turn. How would you like me to fuck myself on your prick until you come?"

Bucky ground their hips together in a circular motion, causing a spark of pleasure to shoot up Steve's groin and spine. He let out a low growl and took a firm grip of Bucky's hips.

"Fuck yes, I'd love that."

Steve's cock slid easily inside Bucky's body this time. Slowly, Bucky began to rise and fall, Steve's slick prick sliding in and out of him without resistance. Steve felt dizzy with arousal, his breaths coming out in quick, short pants as Bucky began grinding harder and faster on Steve's cock, each delicious stroke bringing him closer to climax. As Steve felt his orgasm fast approaching, his grip on Bucky's hips tightened.

"Bucky…" he stammered.

Bucky responded by running his hand through the cum still smeared across his stomach. He brought his hand to Steve's lips and he greedily sucked Bucky's fingers clean, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as his arousal spiked. It was the most filthy and erotic moment of his life and it was what finally pushed him over the edge. Steve let out a low, deep groan as he came. He felt like his brain had been set alight as pleasure pulsed through his entire body, up his spine and down to the tips of his toes. Bucky leaned forward then and crushed their lips together in a passionate kiss and Steve responded by tightly wrapping his arms around Bucky's shoulders, holding him close, never wanting to let go.

Once they had cleaned up, it didn't take long for Bucky to fall asleep. Although Steve was exhausted, he lay awake for as long as he could, admiring the man sleeping soundly by his side. If he'd brought his sketchbook with him, he'd have stayed up all night drawing him; he looked so peaceful as he slept. He thought to himself that he could always draw him next time, but he had to wonder if there ever would be a next time. While they may have just slept together, Steve couldn't be sure whether or not tonight had merely been a moment of frustration and passion colliding. Regardless of how he felt, whatever happened next was entirely up to Bucky. And whatever it was that Bucky wanted—whether it be everything or nothing—Steve would respect his decision. Bucky hummed in his sleep and moved closer, snuggling into the crook of Steve's neck. Steve couldn't help but smile and wrapped his arm around Bucky's shoulder before finally closing his eyes. He knew that one way or another, come morning everything would change. But in the dead of night, he allowed himself to dream about what might be.


	13. Chapter 13

Steve's sleep wasn't a restful one that night. He was plagued by horrible dreams of Rumlow bursting through the bedroom door. When he caught sight of Bucky and Steve in bed together, he'd throw himself at Steve in a rage, his cold fingers wrapping around Steve's throat and trying to squeeze the life from him. Steve startled awake a couple of times, each time gasping for air, his heart pounding so hard in his chest he was surprised that the sound didn't wake Bucky up. It would take him a few moments to realize where he was, then he would flop back onto the bed and fall into another uneasy sleep. When he woke up for the third time, daylight was streaming through the frost-tinted windows and Bucky's side of the bed was empty. Steve reached out and ran his hand over the place where Bucky had lain; it was still warm, so it couldn't have been long since he had gotten up.

Steve reached out for his cell and sighed as he realized that the battery had died. Tossing it back onto the bedside table, he rolled onto his back and thought about the events of the previous evening. Sleeping with Bucky might have been simultaneously the dumbest and best thing that he'd ever done in his life, but he couldn't convince himself to care about what anyone else would think about it; the only person whose opinion mattered to him was Bucky's. Still, a niggling doubt managed to worm its way into his brain, telling him that he could have just made things even more awkward between the two of them now. They really needed to talk about what happened and what—if anything—would happen next.

Steve's daydream was interrupted by a blood-curdling scream. Fear gripped him then, but years of police training had prepared him to quickly brush that aside and leap into action. He practically flew out of the bed, grabbed his gun, and sprinted out of the bedroom towards the commotion, which sounded like it was coming from the bathroom. Steve kicked open the bathroom door with his gun drawn only to be met with the sight of Bucky, ringing wet and naked, climbing out of the shower. Bucky jumped in surprise when Steve came bursting into the bathroom and he instinctively doubled over and covered his head with his hands when he spotted the gun.

"Jesus Christ!" he cried. "What the hell are you doing?!"

"Sorry! Sorry…" Steve immediately lowered his pistol and stepped further into the bathroom. "I heard you screaming and I thought...are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Bucky assured him, still sounding a little shaken. He jerked his thumb at the shower. "There's no hot water for the shower. Sorry that I gave you a fright, I should have warned you that I was going for a shower but I didn't want to wake you."

Steve leaned against the bathroom sink and let out a weary sigh. "Well I'm wide awake now."

Bucky grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He cast Steve a sideways glance and smiled wryly at him. "Do you often run about the house butt naked and swinging your weapon around?"

Steve realized then that in his hurry to rescue Bucky, he hadn't even thought to put on any clothes. Feeling suddenly self-conscious, he cleared his throat and backed out of the bathroom.

"Right. Sorry, I'll just leave you to get dressed and um...sorry," he mumbled, turning on his heel and retreating back to the bedroom to get dressed. When Bucky entered the living room a few minutes later with his hair wrapped in a towel, Steve was fully dressed and lacing up his boots. "I was going to head out to the store and pick up supplies for us. How far down the road do I need to go?"

"If you head back down the path to the main road and turn right, the store is about a mile up the road," said Bucky. "Give me a minute to get dressed and I'll come with you."

Steve shook his head. "Your hair's still damp, I don't want you to catch a chill."

"If you're sure," he hesitated a moment before wrapping his arms around Steve's neck and kissing him. Steve's spirits soared then and he kissed him back, hopeful that last night was more than just a one-time thing. When Bucky broke the kiss he smiled up at Steve and said, "I'll get the fire going again while you're out."

"I won't be long," Steve promised, leaving the cabin with a definite spring in his step. It was a beautiful, crisp winter afternoon and the sky was a clear cerulean blue. After he had scraped the snow from the truck's roof and windows, he took the short drive down to the convenience store to grab supplies. He made sure to pick up the basic essentials—bread and eggs, milk, some canned food—and grabbed up some soap powder, too. He only had one set of clothes and he didn't know how long they'd be stuck up here, so he was determined to keep his clothes clean. As Steve sat his basket on the counter, his eyes fell on the newspapers by the door and he felt his stomach drop at the headlines. He picked up a copy of The Daily Bugle which had a photograph of Rumlow's mugshot above the headline, _ON THE RUN._

Steve's eyes flitted over the article trying to pick up anything of importance but the details were sparse. The only information that it shared was that Brock's accomplice, Jack Rollins, was in police custody but that Rumlow had managed to escape. He wondered why Natasha hadn't called him immediately when this had happened then remembered that his cell battery had died.

"You going to buy that?" drawled the young cashier.

"No." Steve closed the newspaper and tossed it back on top of the pile. "Do you have a phone that I could use?"

The cashier told him that there was a payphone around the other side of the building, so Steve paid for his items and hurried around the corner with a pocketful of change and a large plastic bag of supplies in hand. Pushing a few coins into the slot, Steve punched in Natasha's number and waited anxiously for her to answer as the dial tone buzzed in his ear. After a few rings, the receiver clicked and he heard Natasha's voice.

"Romanoff," she said roughly.

"Nat, it's Steve."

"Oh thank god," she groaned, sounding relieved. "I've been trying to call you! It's been crazy down here…"

"Sorry, my cell died," he said hurriedly. "What's going on down there? I just saw in the papers that Rumlow escaped again."

"It was a shitshow, Steve," she said mournfully. "Rumlow and Rollins turned up at Barnes's apartment last night. We were waiting for them, of course, but when we tried to arrest them, Rumlow decided that it was better to go down guns ablazin' than be taken back to prison."

"Jesus Christ," Steve whispered. "What the hell happened?"

"Don't freak out, but Sam got shot. He's going to be alright," she added quickly as Steve swore loudly down the phone. "He took a slug in the shoulder. He says it hurts like hell, but he'll be okay."

Steve let out a long sigh and asked, "What about Rollins? Has he said anything?"

"No, and he won't be saying anything either," said Natasha darkly. "He took two in the chest. We called a bus but by the time they got him to Metro-General, he'd already died from his wounds."

"Shit," Steve hissed. "And Rumlow?"

"When Rollins got hit, he ran for it. Lucky chased after him but he still managed to escape. We found Lucky down an alleyway a couple of blocks away, the fucker had shot the damn dog."

Steve's heart sank. "Is he..?"

"Lucky's alive but barely," Natasha sighed. "Clint's been beside himself, he hasn't left Lucky's side since they got him out of surgery. It's touch and go at the moment but hopefully, he'll pull through."

Steve gritted his teeth and kicked the brick wall of the convenience store in frustration. While he'd been out here in the wilderness falling into bed with Bucky having the time of his life, his best friend had been shot and Rumlow had escaped. Even the dog had been caught in the crossfire. Steve clenched his eyes shut and bumped the back of his head against the wall.

"I should have been there, Nat," he said mournfully. "If I hadn't left…"

"If you hadn't left, Bucky could be dead right now," said Natasha firmly. "It could have been _you_ that got shot instead and it could have been worse than a flesh wound. There's no point beating yourself up over something that can't be changed now, Steve. Shit happens. We just need to deal with it."

Steve shook his head but said nothing. He knew that Natasha was right but that didn't make him feel any better about the situation.

"You want to hear the only bit of good news that I have?" asked Natasha.

"Go for it," Steve mumbled.

"Before Rumlow shot him, Lucky managed to take a bite out of him," she said with a note of vicious pleasure in her voice. "When we found him he had a lot of blood around his snout that wasn't his. We think he could have bitten him in the arm or the leg."

"Good boy," said Steve appraisingly. He and Lucky might not have started off on the best of terms but he was quickly warming to the mangy mutt. Natasha laughed softly.

"Yeah, I've kinda warmed to him. I hope for Clint's sake that he recovers, he's grown really fond of that dog." Natasha fell quiet for a moment before asking, "Where the hell are you, anyway? The signal isn't that great, you sound really distant."

"We're somewhere in the Catskill Mountains," he said, looking around at his remote surroundings. He heard Natasha snort loudly.

"You're out in the wilderness? How are you managing?"

"How do you mean?" he asked curiously.

"You're a city boy through and through, Steve. I'm struggling to imagine you in a lumberjack shirt chopping wood in the forest," she teased.

"I wish I'd brought a lumberjack shirt with me, I was in such a hurry to get out of the city I forgot to grab any of my clothes," he huffed.

"You're the resourceful type, Steve, I'm sure you'll manage." There was a slight pause, then she said in a low, serious voice, "Listen, they've got everyone on this now; there are roadblocks set up all around the city and the state troopers are on the lookout for hitchhikers or suspicious-looking vehicles. Right now, you're in the safest place that you could be, so your best bet is just to stay put until Rumlow gets caught, 'cause this guy ain't going anywhere."

"Thanks, Nat. I really appreciate everything that you've done for me."

"You owe me big time, buddy, I hope you realize that," she teased and Steve couldn't help but smile.

"I know. I'll try my best to make it up to you when I get back."

"I expect breakfast, lunch, and dinner at The Brasserie for a week!" she cried.

Steve's smiled broadened. "You got yourself a deal."

"Great. I'll hold you to that Rogers, so don't get yourself killed in the meantime, yeah?" she said lightly but he knew that she wasn't joking. "Take care of yourself."

"Yeah, you too. Bye."

Steve hung up the phone and took a few deep breaths to calm himself. So, Rumlow was still out there somewhere. He knew that the chances of Rumlow finding them all the way out here was slim, but given Rumlow's military background, he knew that the man could be incredibly resourceful when he needed to be. He considered not telling Bucky about Rumlow but dismissed that idea almost as soon as the thought had entered his mind; it was better just to tell Bucky the truth, however difficult it may be to hear. He'd been lied to enough times already.

By the time Steve made it back to the cabin his ears hurt from the cold and he wished that he'd grabbed a hat while he was at the convenience store. Resolving to buy one when he visited it again in a couple of days' time, Steve kicked the snow off of his boots before pushing open the cabin door and hurrying inside. When he entered the cabin, he saw Bucky sitting on the edge of the sofa with a strange expression on his face, but before Steve could ask him what was wrong, he felt something hard strike the back of his head. The pain exploded across his head and neck, and the last thing that he heard as he fell to the ground into blackness was Bucky screaming his name.

* * *

The first thing that Steve realized was that he was in a considerable amount of pain. It hurt to move his head or open his eyes. When he tried to reach for his face, he found that he couldn't move his hands. Although he felt incredibly disorientated, he experimentally flexed his wrists and realized that they were tied behind the back of a chair. Curious, he tried to lift his legs but found that they were immobile too. Some sort of rope or cord had been wrapped around his ankles and attached to the legs of the chair that he had been sitting in. His ears were ringing but he could hear two people talking. He knew one of the voices (Bucky) but the other was a strange man's voice, low and gravelly and sounding quite agitated. Steve grimaced as he forced his eyes open to see what was happening. The room was spinning all around him but slowly everything began to come into focus again.

"Ah. Your boyfriend's finally awake," said the unfamiliar voice.

Steve grunted with pain as his head was yanked back by the hair and his eyes flew open to find Brock Rumlow looming over him.

"Mornin' sunshine," he said roughly. "Glad that you could finally join us. I wasn't sure whether you were gonna wake up or not; when I knocked you out you hit the ground like a sack of potatoes."

Steve couldn't help but notice how little Rumlow had changed over the years. His hair was a little longer compared to his mugshot and the Georgia sun had darkened his skin considerably, but he remained the same handsome, sharp-featured man from the mugshot. What was most unnerving was the way that he was smiling at Steve, as though they were old friends, but his dark eyes told a different story entirely.

"H-how long was I out?" he stammered.

"About thirty minutes," Rumlow answered matter-of-factly. "You've probably got a concussion."

The way that Steve's head was pounding, that much was evident. As his head began to clear, his eyes darted around the room and he found Bucky still perched on the edge of the sofa, hugging himself as though trying to make himself look as small and invisible as possible.

"Don't look at him," Rumlow warned, forcing Steve's head toward him instead. "I'm the one that's talking to you."

"What do you want?" Steve croaked.

Rumlow chuckled and his grip tightened in Steve's hair. "I'm the one asking the questions so you better answer them truthfully. I'll know if you're lying."

"Brock," Bucky pleaded. "Just let him go, he hasn't done anything."

"Quiet," he snarled, his gaze never wavering from Steve's. "That truck out there, who does it belong to?"

Steve was thinking fast. His best bet was to provide half-truths in situations like these. He racked his brain for a reply and then finally answered, "It's my girlfriend's truck."

Rumlow laughed. "And does your girlfriend know that you like to shack up with guys?"

"We haven't shacked up, I barely know him," Bucky lied. "Steve and I just met down at the local bar last night and I brought him back here. It was a one-time thing and it didn't mean anything."

Rumlow snapped his head around towards Bucky and shouted, "I told you to shut your goddamn mouth!" Bucky flinched and bowed his head, so Rumlow turned back to Steve and gave him a once over. "Is that true? You two only met last night?"

Steve kept his face straight but his mind was racing. Obviously, Bucky was lying about who Steve was because if he found out that he was a cop...well, they already knew that he had no qualms about taking out law enforcement officers. Brock didn't look entirely convinced by what Bucky had said, so it was up to Steve to convince him. He gave a curt nod and said, "It's true. I-I don't even know his name."

Rumlow's eyes narrowed and for a moment Steve thought that the jig was up, but he finally released his vise-like grip on Steve's hair and straightened to his full height.

"That sounds about right. Bucky's forever been picking up random guys from bars, haven't you?" he sneered. "I'm surprised you even took the time to learn this idiot's name before you dragged him into bed."

Bucky just stared at the floor and said nothing. Rumlow limped over to the sofa and sank into the seat next to Bucky, sticking his injured leg straight out in front of him.

_Lucky's handiwork,_ Steve thought to himself.

"So," Rumlow began conversationally. "I take that you know who I am?"

"I've seen your picture in the paper, yes," Steve admitted, his eyes scanning the entire room to take stock of the situation that he currently found himself in. A mean smile spread across Rumlow's face and he pulled Steve's phone out of his pocket.

"Looking for this?" he taunted. "Not that it would be of much use to you anyway, the battery's dead." He tossed the cellphone onto the coffee table and jerked his head towards Bucky. "This idiot didn't even think to bring a phone with him. Bet you're regretting that now too, aren't you?"

Steve didn't allow himself to react when Rumlow said that but his heart started to beat faster. So, Rumlow hadn't found Bucky's emergency phone. Not yet, anyway. So there was still a chance, however slim, that they could call the police. How long would it take for them to get here though, at least an hour? And with the heavy snow and winding roads, the nearest police station was at least a forty-minute drive from here. And nobody knew where he and Bucky were...nobody except Natasha and Bucky's sisters, who were all expecting them both to be gone for at least a few days. The situation seemed dire, so his only chance was just to keep this guy talking for as long as possible, maybe even talking him into letting Bucky go, or at least distract him long enough for Bucky to make a run for it.

_And run where?_ he asked himself. Without his jacket and shoes, Bucky wouldn't survive long out there in those conditions. Rumlow had Steve's gun next to his phone and another pistol tucked down the front of his pants... perhaps it would still be better for Bucky to take his chances out there than in here with Rumlow.

"How did you find me?" Bucky asked suddenly. Rumlow chuckled and put his arm around Bucky's shoulder and although Bucky tensed at his touch, he kept his expression blank.

"I'm ex-special forces, baby. Finding people's what I did for a living." Rumlow shot Steve a menacing look. "They did a good job teaching me how to get rid of them, too."

"You were in the Green Berets, right?" asked Steve as conversationally as possible. A dangerous look flashed across Rumlow's face then.

"How the fuck do you know that?" he demanded.

"Your tattoo," Steve explained, nodding to the faded skull and dagger emblem on Rumlow's forearm. "I recognized it right away."

The tension in Rumlow's shoulders melted away and he smiled at Steve. "Yeah, as a matter of fact, I was. Are you military yourself?"

Steve shook his head. "Not me. My father was."

"Really?" he asked interestedly. "What regiment?"

"107th."

Rumlow whistled. "An infantryman! Those sonsabitches are tough as shit. How long did your daddy serve for?"

"All his life," said Steve. "He died in combat."

"Shit, I'm sorry to hear that, man," said Rumlow, sounding genuine for perhaps the first time. "Where did he die? The Gulf?"

Steve nodded. "Kuwait."

Rumlow sighed and shook his head. "That's a damn shame."

Steve glanced from Bucky back to Rumlow, trying to keep the conversation going as long as possible. "Do you know what the 107th Infantry Regiments motto was? _Pro Patria et Gloria."_

"For Country and Glory," Rumlow replied.

"That's right," Steve nodded. "My father died when I was very young, but I was always proud of him because he died protecting the country that he loved."

Rumlow huffed out a laugh. "Your daddy sounds like a real hero."

"What's the Green Beret motto?" he asked and Rumlow laughed again.

"He's a chatty one, ain't he?" he said, turning to Bucky. "But not you…" Rumlow's smile fell and his grip on Bucky's shoulder tightened. "You've been very quiet since I turned up. Barely said a word. What's the matter? Haven't you missed me?"

Steve realized then that as calm as he acted, Brock Rumlow was in fact completely unhinged. The way that he was looking at Bucky, as though he wanted to hurt him, frightened the hell out of Steve and he tried his best to get Rumlow to focus his attention on him instead.

"I know what the motto for the Green Berets is too," said Steve desperately. _"De Oppresso Liber_—To Free the Oppressed."

Rumlow sighed and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, and what of it?"

"The Green Berets fight for those who can't fight for themselves," Steve argued. "Bucky told me what you did for him, about the night that you saved him from those guys in the alleyway."

Bucky's eyes widened with fright and he shook his head but Steve pressed on, "You've made a lot of mistakes in your life but not every choice you made has been a bad one. When you decided to step in that night, you showed some of the good that Bucky saw in you, even if nobody else did."

Rumlow's expression grew dark. "You don't know a goddamn thing about me."

"I know that you care for Bucky," Steve argued. "You cared enough to help him that night. You cared so much that rather than fleeing the country, you came back here for him. And if you care for him as much as I think you do, then you'll let him go."

"Steve," Bucky pleaded. "Don't say another word—"

"I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH?" Rumlow bellowed. His anger seemed to explode out of him like a firework and Bucky reacted by leaning away from him and clamping his eyes shut. Rumlow snarled and pulled the pistol from his pants and pointed it at Steve. "You know what Steve, you're right. I _do_ care about Bucky. I care about him a whole lot. I care about him so much that I risked getting my ass thrown back into prison just to come back here for him. But do you know what I find when I come back?"

Bucky yelped as Rumlow grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him closer. "I find out that he's shacked up with some blond bimbo while I've been gone."

"It wasn't like that!" Bucky cried.

"I came here thinking that you'd be happy to see me," Rumlow snarled. "But instead, you slammed the door in my face. You locked yourself in the bathroom and tried to climb out of the window with your little backpack, but I managed to pull you back in. You didn't put up much of a fight after that, did you?"

Steve's heart missed a beat. Bucky's backpack? That's where he had kept his phone…

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve noticed something dark flash past the window. Steve's heart was pounding so fast now that it felt like he had a heartbeat in his ears. Rumlow had the gun pointed at Bucky now, screaming at him while Bucky tried desperately to pull free, but Rumlow's grip on his hair was too tight. Steve only had seconds to get that gun pointed away from Bucky.

"If you're going to shoot anyone, shoot me!" he shouted as loudly as he could.

Rumlow's head snapped towards him and he lowered the gun away from Bucky's chest. Steve felt a stab of fear shoot through him as something in Rumlow's expression changed. It was like someone had flipped a light switch and all of the emotion in his face vanished and he looked at Steve with that same dead-eyed expression that he'd had in his mugshot. Rumlow let Bucky's hair slip from his fingers and he slowly rose to his feet.

"You know what?" he said coolly, cocking the gun and pointing it towards Steve. "You're really getting on my nerves."

Steve clenched his eyes shut and prepared for what was about to happen.

Suddenly, the front door exploded off of its hinges and several flash-bangs went off simultaneously, blasting so loudly that they could easily have been mistaken for gunshots. The flash from the explosives was so bright that even with his eyes closed, Steve's vision whited out. The next few moments passed in a blur: several police officers clad in SWAT gear ambushed the cabin, pouring through the front door and bursting out from the bedroom. Rumlow barely had time to react, only raising his gun a few inches before several shots were fired, each one striking him in the chest. Like a marionette doll whose strings had been cut, Rumlow fell to the ground, a shocked expression written across his pale, unblinking face.

Bucky had his hands over his head when a police officer grabbed him and threw him roughly to the ground. He cried out, terrified at what was happening, but Steve called out to him and tried to reassure him.

"You'll be alright!" he shouted. "Don't resist and just do as they say!"

Bucky caught Steve's eye and nodded vigorously, then allowed himself to be lifted onto his feet and marched out of the cabin. He glanced at Rumlow as he passed but he quickly looked away, all of the color draining from his face. One of the masked officers approached Steve and he squinted as he had a flashlight shone in his face.

"Detective Rogers?" said a familiar voice.

Steve nodded. "Yeah. Is that you, Ross?"

Special Agent Everett Ross lowered his flashlight and pulled off his helmet and mask to reveal his face. He gave Steve a curious look. "I'm surprised to see you here."

"Well, I'm glad to see you," Steve replied. "You mind cutting me loose?"


	14. Chapter 14

It didn't take long for the quiet mountainside cabin to be crawling with feds, local law enforcement, emergency services, and several news crews (by far the least welcome of the bunch). Steve gave Ross a quick overview of how events had unfolded and was informed that once he had been checked out at the hospital, he was to come into the precinct to provide a full statement.

"And I mean everything that happened," Ross warned, casting a sideways glance at Bucky who was being attended to by paramedics in the other ambulance. "Understood?"

Steve nodded. "Understood."

Ross cast a wary eye over the chaotic scene around him and shook his head. "I thought that I told you to only observe and report."

"And I told you that I wouldn't sit on my hands," Steve reminded him. Ross gave him a wry smile and nodded.

"Yes, you did. That was clever what you did in there—shouting to get our attention like that and letting us know that Rumlow was about to fire his weapon. You saved Barnes's life doing that at risk of your own."

"I was just doing my job," Steve shrugged. "How did you know where to find us?"

"We received a phone call at Barnes's premises," Ross explained. "Someone had left a rather distressing voicemail. There was a lot of screaming and shouting, then we heard Rumlow's voice in the background. The phone stayed connected for several minutes so we were able to triangulate the call and find your location."

Steve frowned in confusion, still not entirely sure what had happened, but Ross interrupted his thoughts and asked, "Answer me this, Detective: How did you know that we were outside the building?"

"I saw one of your guys run past the window, so I knew what was about to happen," Steve explained. Ross groaned and closed his eyes.

"We'll need to get those guys to practice their drills more often," he muttered more to himself than Steve. Ross turned to leave but Steve grabbed his arm.

"Thank you, by the way. If you guys hadn't turned up when you did…"

Steve fell silent and Ross offered him a small smile. "Just doing my job, Detective. I'll see you back in the city in a few hours."

Steve shook Ross's hand and waved him off as he marched away to address the gaggle of impatient reporters who were waiting to find out the exciting events that had transpired.

"Hey, Detective!"

Steve turned and was surprised to see Pete, the delivery boy, duck under the police tape and sprint towards him with a large camera hanging around his neck. A young officer chased after him and managed to pull him back by the shoulder.

"Hey, kid! You can't come back here, this area is off-limits," she explained.

"No, it's okay!" Steve called, beckoning Pete over. "Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him."

The young officer reluctantly relinquished her grip on Pete's shoulder and he beamed at Steve as he ran over to his side.

"I _knew_ you guys were cops!" he said excitedly but Steve held up his hand to silence him.

"Okay, hold up a sec and let's rewind," he said. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh! I work part-time as a photographer for the Daily Bugle," he explained, lifting the camera to demonstrate. "I'm here with Miss Everheart." Pete pointed towards a tall blonde woman standing at the front of the mass of journalists, a recorder pointed under Ross Everett's nose. By the looks of it, she was doing a good job grilling him for answers. "I only work for Mr. Wong because I need the extra money."

"Okay, I guess that makes sense," said Steve slowly. "I'm curious though, how did you know that we were cops?"

"I mean, I had my suspicions, especially when those two other guys in the apartment only seemed to be there during the day. And there was a couple of times when you answered the door with a pair of binoculars around your neck and I thought that was pretty weird, too. But after I saw that video of your friend beating up Santa Claus, I knew that I had been right all along!"

Steve stared at Pete, shocked that he'd been able to deduce so much from seemingly minor and unimportant details. "That is...really impressive, I must admit."

Pete smiled shyly and shrugged. "Ah it was nothing. I've just got a good eye for detail. Say, could you do me a favor?"

Steve's eyes narrowed. "What's that?"

Pete looked over his shoulder to check that Miss Everheart wasn't looking in his direction and he pulled out his phone. "Could I get a selfie with you? My friends won't believe me if I tell them that I met you."

Steve sighed and nodded. "Sure, kid. Why not?"

After Pete snapped a couple of pictures and thanked him profusely, he hurried off back to Miss Everheart's side with his camera at the ready. Just then, the crowd of reporters grew louder and surged forward as a gurney with Brock Rumlow's body was wheeled out of the cabin. Steve looked over at Bucky, who stared with a shocked expression as the stretcher emerged. Although Rumlow had been placed inside of a black plastic body bag, the cameras flashed incessantly as the gurney was swiftly slid into the back of the coroner's van and took off down the small trail at high speed with several photographers running after the vehicle still taking pictures. Steve wrapped his foil blanket more securely over his shoulders and went over to speak to Bucky, who was sitting on the back of the ambulance with a matching foil blanket. When he saw Steve approach, he smiled warmly at him.

"Hey," he greeted him softly. "How's your head?"

"Hurts like hell but I'll live," he assured him. "How are you holding up?"

"I've been better," Bucky admitted. "I don't really know what I'm feeling at the moment if I'm honest."

"You're in shock," Steve explained gently. "Anything you feel—or don't feel for that matter—is perfectly normal. It's just going to take time for you to process what's happened."

Bucky nodded but then his face crumpled and tears streamed down his face. He buried his face into his hands and sobbed, "I'm sorry, Steve. This is all my fault."

"No, please don't blame yourself," Steve said softly, pulling Bucky close. He held him tight and stroked his hair as Bucky cried into his shoulder. "None of this is your fault, Buck."

Just then, another police car pulled up and Natasha got out, closely followed by Bucky's youngest sister, Becca. She had a wild look about her as she scanned the scene around her, but when her eyes fell on Bucky she sprinted towards him with tears streaming down her face.

"Bucky!" she wailed. Steve pulled away just in time before Becca collided with her brother with such force that he almost fell flat on his back.

"Becca!" he greeted her sounding relieved. "What are you doing here?"

"Natasha called me to tell me what had happened," she explained, relinquishing him from her vise-like hug, but she kept hold of his hands. "She brought me here straight away. Are you alright? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he assured her. "A couple of bumps and bruises."

"Thank god," she sighed, looking visibly relieved, then she glowered at her brother and struck him on the arm. "Why didn't you tell me what was going on before?"

Bucky gaped at his sister. "Hey, I've just been in a hostage situation! You can't hit me!"

"The hell I can't!" she cried. "You should have told me what was going on with the police and Brock and…" Becca's face crumpled and she pulled Bucky into a tight hug. "Thank god you're alright."

Bucky rolled his eyes and patted her on the back. Natasha stepped up beside Steve then and he was surprised when she threw her arms around him and hugged him too.

"Hey, are you alright?" she whispered, pulling away to give him a once over. "You look pretty beat up."

"It looks worse than it is."

Steve looked at Bucky and Becca, who were talking to each other in low voices. He felt reassured that Bucky wasn't on his own any longer, so he took a step away to give him and his sister some privacy. But as he turned to leave, Becca grabbed his arm.

"Hey, are you the boyfriend?" she asked.

Steve looked between her and Bucky and stammered, "Oh. I-I'm not his—"

"Yes, he is," Bucky smiled, slipping his hand into Steve's. Despite the fact that every inch of his body was in pain, Steve's spirits soared then. He squeezed Bucky's hand and they grinned at each other.

"Thank you," said Becca. "For saving my brother's life."

Steve shook his head. "I didn't do anything. Your brother was the one who saved us."

Becca looked sharply at her brother who had a small smile on his face. "Is that true?"

"He's exaggerating," he argued. "I hardly did anything."

"What did you do?" asked Natasha curiously.

"When Brock turned up at the cabin, the first thing I did was grab my backpack and run for the bathroom," Bucky explained. "I knew that I wouldn't be able to outrun him, so I pulled my cell out of my bag and called my house."

"You called your own house?" asked Becca, confused. Bucky nodded.

"I knew that you guys had been recording my phone calls, so I figured that if I let it go to voicemail, you'd be listening in and realize what was happening. I threw my phone out of the bathroom window before Brock kicked down the door and could see what I was doing. I tried to make as much noise as possible so that you guys realized that I was in trouble."

"When I realized that Rumlow hadn't found your phone yet, I hoped that I could somehow distract him long enough so that you could call for help," said Steve. "I just didn't realize until now that you'd already done just that, even before I returned to the cabin."

"That was a really smart move, Barnes," said Natasha appraisingly.

Bucky smiled shyly at her. "Thanks. And please, call me Bucky."

Agent Ross came over a little while later and informed the group that they would be escorting Bucky to the hospital for a check-up before taking him to the station to make a full statement. Steve and Bucky hugged each other tightly before reluctantly letting one another go and Steve watched as Bucky climbed into the back of the ambulance, followed by his sister. When the doors of the ambulance slammed shut and began to drive away, he and Natasha watched it disappear down the darkened path, flashing bright red and white lights like a beacon in the night.

"Well, thank god that's all over," Natasha sighed. "I don't know about you but I could really use a vacation right about now."

"By the looks of things, I might be going on a permanent vacation from the force," Steve mused but Natasha made a dismissive sound.

"Nah, this story's all over the news, you and Barnes are heroes! Even if they wanted to kick you off the force, I doubt they would now, lest they face a backlash from the media and the public."

"I broke about every rule in the operational handbook," Steve argued. "I broke a few laws while I was at it, too. Abandoned my partner—"

"Excuse me! I'm a grown woman, I can handle myself!" she said huffily. "Besides, I gave you the keys to my truck and told you to leave."

"Still, how I behaved was completely unprofessional and unbecoming of a New York City Police Detective. If by some miracle I don't lose my job, Captain Fury will kill me anyway."

Natasha turned to Steve and asked, "Well...was it worth it?"

Steve smiled. "Yeah, it was."


	15. Chapter 15

"Bucky, where do you keep the plates?"

Bucky stopped stirring the pot of gravy on the stove to show his sister, Kimberly, where he kept the plates, cutlery, and glassware. No sooner had he returned to the cooker and picked up the wooden spoon than he paused again when there was a loud knock at the front door.

"I'll get it," he cried. Wiping his hands on his apron, he squeezed past his sisters, Georgie and Winnie, as they were setting up the table for Christmas dinner.

After the dramatic events of the last few weeks came to light, Bucky's siblings had all rallied round to take care of him. While he had insisted that he was fine and perfectly capable of taking care of himself, they had ignored his protestations and, for the last few days, had each taken turns to stay with him and keep him company. They said that it was the least they could do after everything that he had done for them over the years. Although their constant company was smothering at times, Bucky was really quite glad that they were there. When he opened the front door, he frowned as Pete the delivery boy beamed up at him.

"Merry Christmas, Mr. Barnes!" he greeted him brightly. "You're looking much better than the last time that I saw you."

Bucky cried over his shoulder. "Who the hell ordered Chinese food? I'm just about to plate up a twelve-pound turkey!"

Becca came hurrying out of the living room, grabbed Pete by the hand, and pulled him into the house before closing the front door. "I didn't order Chinese, I invited Peter here to join us for dinner."

Bucky gaped at his sister. "When were you going to tell me?"

"I just did," she drawled, guiding Pete into the kitchen. Bucky shook his head and wandered back towards the kitchen.

"The more the merrier, I suppose," he mumbled.

While Becca and Pete filled up the glasses with wine for their meal, Bucky grabbed his wooden spoon again and only managed to stir his gravy a couple of times before there was another knock at the door. Sighing, he marched away from the cooker towards the front door. Almost tripping over the cat as he did so. Who the hell was it this time?

When Bucky opened the front door, however, a far more pleasant sight than Pete the delivery boy greeted him. Steve stood there smiling nervously at him wearing a thick cream woolen jumper and corduroy slacks. He was also now sporting two black eyes and a neck brace, but Bucky thought he'd never seen anyone more handsome in his life.

"Steve," he smiled. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, I just stopped by to see how you were doing and to wish you a Merry Christmas. And to give you this," Steve held out a bottle of vodka adorned with a big red Christmas bow. "To make up for the one that we drank up at the cabin."

Bucky chuckled and took the bottle from Steve's outstretched hand. "Thank you, that's really thoughtful. How have you been? I haven't heard from you in a few days."

"I've been giving a lot of statements to the FBI, to Internal Affairs, my boss…" he explained. "You'd be amazed how much paperwork a case like this involves."

"Yeah, I can imagine," Bucky said quietly. "So...you still have a job then?"

"Oh yeah." Steve tried to nod vigorously then winced in pain. "I mean, I'm suspended without pay for the next couple of months and I'll probably be working behind a desk for the rest of my life, but I get to keep my job."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bucky said sincerely but Steve waved his hand dismissively.

"Don't be. To be honest, I prefer it this way. Office hours are a lot more sociable than going on a stakeout."

"Oh, that's good…"

"Are you two still standing at the door?" Becca yelled from the kitchen.

"We're having a moment, Becca!" Bucky shouted.

"Well have a moment inside the house!" she shot back. "You're letting all the heat out!"

"Alright! Keep your hair on!" Bucky yelled before asking Steve more gently, "Would you like to come in? I'm just about to serve dinner."

"Oh, I don't want to intrude if you're having a family meal…"

"You're not," Bucky assured him, nodding towards the kitchen. "Besides, I think everybody would like to meet you."

Steve popped his head through the front door and saw Bucky's four sisters and (for some inexplicable reason) Pete the delivery boy, all crowded around the kitchen door watching him and Bucky. Becca waved to him.

"Hi!" she greeted him brightly. "Will you be joining us?"

Steve's grin broadened and he nodded. "Sure, I'd love to."

"What about your friends?" asked Bucky, pointing to the familiar silver Toyota Tundra parked outside of his apartment. Steve turned around and groaned with embarrassment as he caught sight of his friends: Sam sat in the backseat beside Lucky and had his face pressed against the window while Clint sat in the front passenger seat grinning and waving at them. More embarrassing still was Natasha, who sat in the driver's seat stony-faced peering at them through a large pair of binoculars.

"Not this time," said Steve slowly. He waved to his friends and stepped over the threshold into Bucky's house. "I'll properly introduce you to them another time."

"Sounds good," Bucky said, before adding, "Don't take this the wrong way but your friends are kinda weird."

"I know," Steve sighed as the door closed behind him. "But I love them all the same."

* * *

As Bucky's front door closed, Natasha lowered her binoculars and sighed. "I don't think he's coming with us today, guys."

"Seriously?" Clint cried in indignation. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"Go to dinner without him," she reasoned, stowing the binoculars into the glove box. "We can catch up with him and Bucky another time."

"Well, I for one am happy for them!" said Sam brightly. "It's about damn time Steve found some happiness in his life. Plus, now that we have an extra space in the car, we can go pick up Val instead."

"Yeah, make it a double date," said Clint, wiggling his eyebrows licentiously at Natasha.

Natasha gave Clint a withering look before grabbing his face and kissing him hard on the lips. When she pulled away, Clint looked stunned and Sam laughed.

"So, you're finally making it official between you two?" he asked.

"It's been official for a long time now," Natasha corrected him, buckling in her seatbelt. "We're just letting you know that it's official."

Clint had a goofy smile on his face and he sighed. "This is the best Christmas ever."

"God, don't get all gooey on me now," Natasha warned, pressing play on her iPod. Heavy metal music began to blare through the car speakers and Lucky barked and wagged his tail, clearly enjoying the music. Clint, however, groaned and leaned back in his seat.

"Don't you have any Curtis Mayfield?" he asked hopefully.

"Nope," she replied curtly. Turning the key in the ignition, the truck engine roared into life. "So once we've picked up Val, where do you boys fancy going for dinner?"

"Shalom Grill," Sam and Clint replied in unison.

Natasha smiled and revved the engine before taking off at high speed down the street. "Shalom Grill sounds good to me."

THE END.


End file.
